((Tyrell Lahti continued from Vindication))
Tyrell strode up the trail, his head bowed and a lit cigarette in hand. He couldn't help but keep a steady pace, even knowing full well he had nowhere important to be. It was difficult to slow down, despite the fact that he'd just taken a walk to clear his head. It was one of the rare days Ty could just leave school and enjoy his evening, free from work or responsibilities at home. Without a long list of things to do, Tyrell knew he would inevitably spend his evening in a way that would leave him sore the next morning; hence, the walk.
For Ty, fun usually involved things that tended to fall into the realm of illegal, or at the very least dangerous. Breaking into abandoned buildings, trying new and exciting mail-order drugs, or finding somewhere loud enough he couldn't hear himself think. It was the easiest way for Ty to socialize, and to understand other people. There was a crazy situation, and they all had to deal with it. Stories came out of those kinds of nights, but it was also an easy way to wake up hung over, covered in debris, bruises, and mysterious hickies.
Part of the reason he'd taken such a long walk was to process the events of the night before. On most of those aforementioned crazy nights, he kept company with people he didn't entirely connect with. Sure, they'd known each other for years and had a lot of fond memories, but there wasn't much deeper than a mutual interest in extremes. If they dropped off the face of the Earth, he would probably not think much of it. The feeling wasn't mutual, unfortunately. Ty's presence was valued, and he knew this. It had certain advantages, but not enough to justify investing himself into those relationships to any more meaningful degree.
However, in the last few weeks, he'd been spending time with someone new. They'd met in class and hit it off with a general disdain for authority and a mutual interest in each other. At least, that had been what he'd read from her body language and the way her eyes seemed to follow him across the room when they weren't in the midst of a conversation. While he'd treated it as a curiosity at first, over the time they'd spent together he began to realize it was probably more than a passing attraction on his end. For one thing, they spent a lot of time just hanging out and talking. Sure, there were drugs involved, but nothing stronger than weed. They talked about a lot of things - escaping Chattanooga, escaping America, whether people were basically good or evil. They didn't always agree, but it was easier to let his guard down around her than most.
So why... why not? Ty stopped at a bend in the trail, overlooking the river. His quick pace had gradually slowed down the more he thought about this.
Their semi-regular smoking session in a park not far from Ty's place quickly turned into regular hangouts at Ty's place. It was uncomfortable at first, telling her the reason why they avoided the main floor. It wasn't like she was the first girl he'd brought home, but she was the first he felt comfortable actually explaining the situation to. It didn't deter her, to his surprise. While he expected her to be put off by the chaos of his bedroom, she delighted in studying the various bits of sentimentality he'd adorned the room with. Though her tastes differed from his, she still insisted in listening to a few of his vinyl records to see if she could tell the difference between vinyl and mp3s.
He flicked the cigarette butt aside, landing not far from the river. As he reached into his pocket for the rest of his pack, he remembered Erika admonishing him for just tossing them away as he walked. Ty sighed, picking it up and tossing it into a nearby trash bin. It wasn't like he was some kind of environmentalist, but he wanted to try and get a handle on how her mind worked. In some way he'd hoped that the little gesture might give him some insight.
Last night had taken a sharp turn towards what they had probably both spent weeks thinking about. In a lull in their conversation, they'd locked eyes. There was nothing particular about what had been said, and in truth Ty couldn't even remember. He just knew that they'd both had the same impulse, and practically jumped each other. She wasn't the most experienced kisser, but what they were doing wasn't exactly delicate. Whatever air of awkwardness hung over their conversations before was decidedly absent, and they'd gotten halfway through peeling each other's clothes off when she had abruptly stopped. There was no obvious discomfort, he hadn't done anything to make her uncomfortable as far as he could tell, and yet she suddenly pushed him away.
They were both shirtless, and she had pressed her hand to his chest, but not forcefully. She had this look, a sweet sort of sadness. There was no explanation, only a gentle request: "We can't do anything with me, just you." Ty obliged, though he couldn't understand why. He still didn't.
The fuck am I worried about? It's not like I didn't enjoy myself.
The thought that getting someone else off might matter on an emotional level rather than a sort of shallow, pride-driven urge upset him more than he'd have cared to admit. The realization that he'd been doing it like that for those reasons up until now was equally unsettling. Had he really amputated that much of himself that feeling too much was a crisis? It seemed like a stupid problem to have, the more he thought about it.
"Fuck." Ty cursed under his breath as he realized he'd reached the last cigarette in the packet. He tossed the box out, lit up, and kept walking.
It didn't matter much anyways. She'd made it pretty clear when she left they were going to stay on friendly terms, though not anything more. He should have just moved on, but here he was. A set of earrings and a small green glass pipe sat inside of his backpack, wrapped in a small box. She'd broken her old pipe at his place a few days ago. The earrings he'd found in the same weird hippie store as the pipe. There were circular studs, with leaves encased in resin inside. It seemed up her alley, so he picked them up as well. He'd had a hard time hiding his disappointment that she didn't want to date him, and it seemed to have upset her in turn. At the very least, this sort of gesture might let her know he still wanted to be friends.
His pace quickened once more. It might've been better to just break it off entirely. It wasn't as if Erika didn't do the same thing with so-called friends all the time, from what she'd told him. It was one more complication he really didn't need in his life right now. Ty cracked his knuckles and took a long drag of the cigarette. There was a lot more of the trail ahead of him. At the very least, enough that he could work through this before the night was over.
Gifts
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
((Wyatt Carter continued from... god, I don't even know, I'll figure that out later.))
Bret said that piece of shit Ty would be coming along any time now.
Wyatt normally didn't have a lot of reason to doubt or distrust his brother. Cut off three inches and however many pounds, grow a beard to hide that fuggo face and you were pretty much talking about the same guy after all, one of the dependable MEN attending George Hunter high, not just some sissy, geeky kid who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. Not a limp-dicked bleeding heart either and, despite what you might guess from the beard at first, prooobably not into porking dudes. Seriously, what was with all the gays coming out of the woodwork? Did anybody know how to raise their kids right anymore? Anyway, Bret was the kind of guy Wyatt could rely on at least eight times out of ten. If Bret said this was a good spot to stake somebody out, then that's exactly what this was.
The place in question the Carter brothers were haunting was adjacent to the trail that ran along the Tennessee river, a good ways down from the boardwalk. Less messy that way, fewer people who could catch wind of what was happening. Putting so much thought into it made the whole situation seem just a bit more ominous than it really had to be though, Wyatt thought. It wasn't like they were about to go out and commit a murder of one of their classmates all frontier-justice style, but then again, they weren't going to sit and have a nice chat either. Not after what he did to Ives. And it had to be Tyrell fucking Lahti of all people, too, somebody with a physique that Wyatt could actually respect. Kid's choice of sports wasn't bad either; on most days, they'd be cool. Shame he had to go and fuck that up by messing around with the wrong girl.
Still, it was no wonder Bret got a little help for dealing with a dude built like goddamn Lennox Lewis. Except, oh wait, Bret didn't want the help, because he was just going to go ahead and let all of this happen without even telling his twin brother about it. That was a loud, angry conversation after school, one Wyatt still felt a little slighted by but it was best to let it go in the long run - he was getting what he wanted, after all, and they'd teach this fucking kid a lesson. Ty could throw his weight around and was a monster of a kid, but unfortunately he was about to feel pain from somebody even bigger than him... oh, and Bret, can't forget about him.
"You see him yet?" Wyatt asked, arms crossed and seated on the grass near a bush, ignoring a bumblebee that had been bouncing around from flower to flower and had decided to come check him out for a little bit instead. "I feel like my butt's starting to go numb, here."
Bret said that piece of shit Ty would be coming along any time now.
Wyatt normally didn't have a lot of reason to doubt or distrust his brother. Cut off three inches and however many pounds, grow a beard to hide that fuggo face and you were pretty much talking about the same guy after all, one of the dependable MEN attending George Hunter high, not just some sissy, geeky kid who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. Not a limp-dicked bleeding heart either and, despite what you might guess from the beard at first, prooobably not into porking dudes. Seriously, what was with all the gays coming out of the woodwork? Did anybody know how to raise their kids right anymore? Anyway, Bret was the kind of guy Wyatt could rely on at least eight times out of ten. If Bret said this was a good spot to stake somebody out, then that's exactly what this was.
The place in question the Carter brothers were haunting was adjacent to the trail that ran along the Tennessee river, a good ways down from the boardwalk. Less messy that way, fewer people who could catch wind of what was happening. Putting so much thought into it made the whole situation seem just a bit more ominous than it really had to be though, Wyatt thought. It wasn't like they were about to go out and commit a murder of one of their classmates all frontier-justice style, but then again, they weren't going to sit and have a nice chat either. Not after what he did to Ives. And it had to be Tyrell fucking Lahti of all people, too, somebody with a physique that Wyatt could actually respect. Kid's choice of sports wasn't bad either; on most days, they'd be cool. Shame he had to go and fuck that up by messing around with the wrong girl.
Still, it was no wonder Bret got a little help for dealing with a dude built like goddamn Lennox Lewis. Except, oh wait, Bret didn't want the help, because he was just going to go ahead and let all of this happen without even telling his twin brother about it. That was a loud, angry conversation after school, one Wyatt still felt a little slighted by but it was best to let it go in the long run - he was getting what he wanted, after all, and they'd teach this fucking kid a lesson. Ty could throw his weight around and was a monster of a kid, but unfortunately he was about to feel pain from somebody even bigger than him... oh, and Bret, can't forget about him.
"You see him yet?" Wyatt asked, arms crossed and seated on the grass near a bush, ignoring a bumblebee that had been bouncing around from flower to flower and had decided to come check him out for a little bit instead. "I feel like my butt's starting to go numb, here."
((Bret Carter continued from: Animal Magnetism))
"Be patient." Came Bret's response. He was stood nearby his brother, flicking through Instagram on his phone and thinking. He had been going over the plan in his head and considering the possibilities. It wasn't that he thought the plan was bad—it wasn't—it was just a sure bet. There were some risks involved and he had been trying to figure out the best way to reduce them. There had been a few ideas, but nothing he had wanted to resort to, there were limits they needed to maintain after all. He'd gone over everything with Wyatt again as they'd driven down.
The drive, in an unexpected twist, hadn't been like every other drive with Wyatt. His younger twin seemed to be in a distinctly foul mood, and it wasn't entirely due to his not telling him about what had happened. In fact, that seemed to be a separate issue, coupled with some of the quieter and nastier rumors he had caught wind of it piqued Bret's interest but he had filed it away for the time being. He would have plenty of time to be able to explore the particulars behind Wyatt's moodiness. Tyrell, however, was a more urgent issue, Ivy would no doubt want a full report on what they did to solve the problem and she would no doubt want it as soon as possible. Patience in regards to getting what she wanted wasn't something she possessed. She was like his brother in that.
Unlike the two of them though, patience was something he possessed. It was why he had come up with the plan for an ambush. It was a classic maneuver that was used all the time in war because it worked. There was no point in wasting time with a fair fight when you could create an unfair one and get the result you needed.
As he was stood there thinking he heard the telltale sound of footsteps approaching from down the trail.
"Get ready." Bret said as he locked his phone, crouched down and placed it down on the grass. His wallet and car keys followed, being dropped next to it as he stood up.
Bret rolled out his shoulders and neck as the footsteps got closer.
"Let's break him."
"Be patient." Came Bret's response. He was stood nearby his brother, flicking through Instagram on his phone and thinking. He had been going over the plan in his head and considering the possibilities. It wasn't that he thought the plan was bad—it wasn't—it was just a sure bet. There were some risks involved and he had been trying to figure out the best way to reduce them. There had been a few ideas, but nothing he had wanted to resort to, there were limits they needed to maintain after all. He'd gone over everything with Wyatt again as they'd driven down.
The drive, in an unexpected twist, hadn't been like every other drive with Wyatt. His younger twin seemed to be in a distinctly foul mood, and it wasn't entirely due to his not telling him about what had happened. In fact, that seemed to be a separate issue, coupled with some of the quieter and nastier rumors he had caught wind of it piqued Bret's interest but he had filed it away for the time being. He would have plenty of time to be able to explore the particulars behind Wyatt's moodiness. Tyrell, however, was a more urgent issue, Ivy would no doubt want a full report on what they did to solve the problem and she would no doubt want it as soon as possible. Patience in regards to getting what she wanted wasn't something she possessed. She was like his brother in that.
Unlike the two of them though, patience was something he possessed. It was why he had come up with the plan for an ambush. It was a classic maneuver that was used all the time in war because it worked. There was no point in wasting time with a fair fight when you could create an unfair one and get the result you needed.
As he was stood there thinking he heard the telltale sound of footsteps approaching from down the trail.
"Get ready." Bret said as he locked his phone, crouched down and placed it down on the grass. His wallet and car keys followed, being dropped next to it as he stood up.
Bret rolled out his shoulders and neck as the footsteps got closer.
"Let's break him."
V8
Aracelis Fuentes
California “Cali” Fox
Darryl Smith Jr.
Jessica Romero
Roberta “Robbie” Woodvine
Aracelis Fuentes
California “Cali” Fox
Darryl Smith Jr.
Jessica Romero
Roberta “Robbie” Woodvine
Tyrell kept walking, unaware of anything out of the ordinary as he pressed on. A curious tingling sensation ran up the side of his face as took another drag of his cigarette - it was his teeth, once again. The metal ones. They never really stopped feeling weird, no matter how much he was told they'd be fine. Of course, the cigarettes probably didn't help.
He'd picked up the habit at work, as he liked the head-rush and it was a good excuse to stand outside and chat with his coworkers, some of whom had a lot more experience in the business than he did. The Sous-Chef, Keith, was a decent person to talk to; the sort to chirp at people until they'd earned his respect, after which he turned out to be a pretty kind person. It was his way of weeding out people who weren't serious about the work. Ty could appreciate that, and tried to get his advice on things as much as possible. It also helped that Keith was something of a MMA junkie, and enjoyed Ty's take on matches and the occasional fantasy match-up. Keith kept pressing him to join his Brazilian Jiu-jitsu gym, something that had previously not occurred to Ty.
Part of it was skepticism, at least at first. Keith was deep into bro-science and wouldn't hesitate to espouse whatever new breakthrough he'd heard from Joe Rogan's podcast or whatever dark corner of the so-called "manosphere". A solid forty percent of it was either bullshit or just flat-out unsubstantiated, but where BJJ was concerned there was definitely some merit. It wasn't like a boxing background wouldn't do for most street fights - there were plenty of videos out there of professional and semi-professional boxers taking on multiple opponents and dropping them one after the other. But, as Keith repeated like a mantra: "most fights go to the ground." He wasn't wrong, and Ty had by now watched plenty of strikers who had a weak ground game get completely demolished on one match or another. Usually that moment was accompanied by excited shouting from behind a few beer glasses, occasionally Ty's own if he remembered to break out his fake ID.
At some level it upset him to think he'd missed something, some critical part of being a decent fighter. He couldn't stand the idea that someone might be able to get the better of him, at least on a level that left Ty so utterly helpless. He knew how to handle pain, or taking a hit-
I handle it every day. It's comforting, in it's own way. Reminds me of what I can survive.
-but someone choking him out? Snapping a limb? That was uncharted territory, for the most part. There were strikers who were good enough to defeat most people standing - Conor McGregor came to mind - but that was the exception, not the rule. Gaps in his knowledge like this were a weakness he couldn't afford to possess. He'd had enough of being someone's victim. So maybe he'd give it a try. Ty's thoughts strayed to the small glass pipe wrapped in a t-shirt in his backpack.
What about her? Is she a weakness? Am I going out of my way for someone who's not going to give a shit?
He stopped in the middle of the path, an idea occurring to him in the same way he might discover a paper cut. She used a vaporizer most of the time for her drugs. What would she do with a glass pipe, as nice as this one was? Ty pulled the cigarette from his lips, and looked at it. It was nearly finished, and smoldered in the light of the evening.
Another vulnerability. Maybe I should get one of those e-cigarette things?
Stomping out the cigarette under his heel, he felt suddenly uneasy. The manic energy that had propelled him out the door this evening hadn't gone away. If anything else it had intensified, and now it became clear he wasn't going to be able to smoke cigarettes anymore. So he needed something His eyes darted from one end of the path to the other, as he realized he didn't entirely know where he had walked to.
A rustling from nearby bushes caught his attention, though he had what seemed like less than a heartbeat to recognize what was about to happen. It wasn't enough time to do anything about it.
He'd picked up the habit at work, as he liked the head-rush and it was a good excuse to stand outside and chat with his coworkers, some of whom had a lot more experience in the business than he did. The Sous-Chef, Keith, was a decent person to talk to; the sort to chirp at people until they'd earned his respect, after which he turned out to be a pretty kind person. It was his way of weeding out people who weren't serious about the work. Ty could appreciate that, and tried to get his advice on things as much as possible. It also helped that Keith was something of a MMA junkie, and enjoyed Ty's take on matches and the occasional fantasy match-up. Keith kept pressing him to join his Brazilian Jiu-jitsu gym, something that had previously not occurred to Ty.
Part of it was skepticism, at least at first. Keith was deep into bro-science and wouldn't hesitate to espouse whatever new breakthrough he'd heard from Joe Rogan's podcast or whatever dark corner of the so-called "manosphere". A solid forty percent of it was either bullshit or just flat-out unsubstantiated, but where BJJ was concerned there was definitely some merit. It wasn't like a boxing background wouldn't do for most street fights - there were plenty of videos out there of professional and semi-professional boxers taking on multiple opponents and dropping them one after the other. But, as Keith repeated like a mantra: "most fights go to the ground." He wasn't wrong, and Ty had by now watched plenty of strikers who had a weak ground game get completely demolished on one match or another. Usually that moment was accompanied by excited shouting from behind a few beer glasses, occasionally Ty's own if he remembered to break out his fake ID.
At some level it upset him to think he'd missed something, some critical part of being a decent fighter. He couldn't stand the idea that someone might be able to get the better of him, at least on a level that left Ty so utterly helpless. He knew how to handle pain, or taking a hit-
I handle it every day. It's comforting, in it's own way. Reminds me of what I can survive.
-but someone choking him out? Snapping a limb? That was uncharted territory, for the most part. There were strikers who were good enough to defeat most people standing - Conor McGregor came to mind - but that was the exception, not the rule. Gaps in his knowledge like this were a weakness he couldn't afford to possess. He'd had enough of being someone's victim. So maybe he'd give it a try. Ty's thoughts strayed to the small glass pipe wrapped in a t-shirt in his backpack.
What about her? Is she a weakness? Am I going out of my way for someone who's not going to give a shit?
He stopped in the middle of the path, an idea occurring to him in the same way he might discover a paper cut. She used a vaporizer most of the time for her drugs. What would she do with a glass pipe, as nice as this one was? Ty pulled the cigarette from his lips, and looked at it. It was nearly finished, and smoldered in the light of the evening.
Another vulnerability. Maybe I should get one of those e-cigarette things?
Stomping out the cigarette under his heel, he felt suddenly uneasy. The manic energy that had propelled him out the door this evening hadn't gone away. If anything else it had intensified, and now it became clear he wasn't going to be able to smoke cigarettes anymore. So he needed something His eyes darted from one end of the path to the other, as he realized he didn't entirely know where he had walked to.
A rustling from nearby bushes caught his attention, though he had what seemed like less than a heartbeat to recognize what was about to happen. It wasn't enough time to do anything about it.
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MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
Break him, huh? Yeah. Bret didn't have to tell him twice.
"Right," Wyatt muttered under his breath. He set his hands under him to push up off the grass when he noticed Bret taking items out of his pocket... keys, phone, shit like that. Things that could be pointy in the wrong direction or break when shit got rough. That was actually probably a good idea, just to stay on the safe side. Wyatt scooped a hand in his pockets and turned everything inside out: keys, phone, wallet, some spare change and a pack of gum all tumbled onto the grass, the phone on one side and the other articles on the other. He pushed himself to his feet and turned his head to either side to crack his neck, gave Bret eye contact to make sure they were on the same page, then closed in.
You couldn't have asked for a more perfect scenario. Tyrell, in his infinite wisdom, had not only decided to take a little run into the middle of nowhere after having made dangerous enemies, but he also happened to stop just beyond his and Bret's little picnic area. Not that there would have been any major issues with taking him down on the jog, there definitely wouldn't have been... but if the bastard wanted to stay still, that'd just make the hit all the sweeter.
Wyatt saved the burst of speed for the big hit for the last five yards or so between himself and Tyrell. To Wyatt, the funniest misconceptions about a guy his size were that somebody that big had to be slow. Well, if he was slow, then he wouldn't be of much use on the football team, now would he? He was no running back, whatever, but it wasn't like he couldn't catch somebody on the sprint. And you ain't outrunning anybody standing still, neither. Instinct almost told him to go for a sack, but interests ran far beyond just getting Ty on the ground. There had to be some damage done, too, something to ring his bell and make sure it kept ringing even if the motherfucker had a chance to stand back up. So Wyatt brought his shoulder in, raised his elbow up and drove his forearm into the back of Ty's head, with all of his weight and and velocity behind it.
"What up, you fuckin' bitch!?" Wyatt bellowed just after the connection. Ty was reeling from the hit as he ought to, but he was stumbling forward on his feet and very likely still not fully aware of what was happening. Momentum carried Wyatt after Ty, but before the two of them danced too far ahead, Wyatt planted his left foot and grabbed out with the same hand to snatch up as much of the back of Tyrell's shirt as he could, fuck if the thing ripped or stretched. The first punch to Ty's back was quick, right on the spine. The second was much more satisfying to feel, at least from his end, turning his heel with it and forcing his knuckles deep into the stringy layer of muscle over the right side of Ty's back, right where the back of his ribs should be. In the heat of the moment he wasn't sure if it was a conscious action or if it was simply from the force of the hit, but Wyatt released Ty's shirt in order to let the kid drop.
Not that he was through with him. Oh no.
Not by a long shot.
"Right," Wyatt muttered under his breath. He set his hands under him to push up off the grass when he noticed Bret taking items out of his pocket... keys, phone, shit like that. Things that could be pointy in the wrong direction or break when shit got rough. That was actually probably a good idea, just to stay on the safe side. Wyatt scooped a hand in his pockets and turned everything inside out: keys, phone, wallet, some spare change and a pack of gum all tumbled onto the grass, the phone on one side and the other articles on the other. He pushed himself to his feet and turned his head to either side to crack his neck, gave Bret eye contact to make sure they were on the same page, then closed in.
You couldn't have asked for a more perfect scenario. Tyrell, in his infinite wisdom, had not only decided to take a little run into the middle of nowhere after having made dangerous enemies, but he also happened to stop just beyond his and Bret's little picnic area. Not that there would have been any major issues with taking him down on the jog, there definitely wouldn't have been... but if the bastard wanted to stay still, that'd just make the hit all the sweeter.
Wyatt saved the burst of speed for the big hit for the last five yards or so between himself and Tyrell. To Wyatt, the funniest misconceptions about a guy his size were that somebody that big had to be slow. Well, if he was slow, then he wouldn't be of much use on the football team, now would he? He was no running back, whatever, but it wasn't like he couldn't catch somebody on the sprint. And you ain't outrunning anybody standing still, neither. Instinct almost told him to go for a sack, but interests ran far beyond just getting Ty on the ground. There had to be some damage done, too, something to ring his bell and make sure it kept ringing even if the motherfucker had a chance to stand back up. So Wyatt brought his shoulder in, raised his elbow up and drove his forearm into the back of Ty's head, with all of his weight and and velocity behind it.
"What up, you fuckin' bitch!?" Wyatt bellowed just after the connection. Ty was reeling from the hit as he ought to, but he was stumbling forward on his feet and very likely still not fully aware of what was happening. Momentum carried Wyatt after Ty, but before the two of them danced too far ahead, Wyatt planted his left foot and grabbed out with the same hand to snatch up as much of the back of Tyrell's shirt as he could, fuck if the thing ripped or stretched. The first punch to Ty's back was quick, right on the spine. The second was much more satisfying to feel, at least from his end, turning his heel with it and forcing his knuckles deep into the stringy layer of muscle over the right side of Ty's back, right where the back of his ribs should be. In the heat of the moment he wasn't sure if it was a conscious action or if it was simply from the force of the hit, but Wyatt released Ty's shirt in order to let the kid drop.
Not that he was through with him. Oh no.
Not by a long shot.
Wyatt, as he always did, got excited and rushed out ahead with all the subtlety of a rhino. As his brother rumbled down the embankment Bret strolled after him. Wyatt knocked Ty off the path and further away before dropping him to the ground. Ty turned out to be like everyone else in that he couldn't stand up to a Wyatt charge. It wasn't exactly surprising. No one besides Bret could.
With the ambush sprung and Tyrell on the ground, Bret moved in. The element of surprise had given them the advantage and they needed to keep it up. A few hits, rough him up, tell him never to talk shit about Ivy again and then get out. The whole thing was probably going to last thirty seconds and that was if Bret was being generous. There wasn't much Tyrell could do from his current position. Wyatt had done a good job on that front. All of the boxing experience in the world didn't mean anything if you were too busy trying to get up.
Moving around to the front of Tyrell, Bret dropped two punches of his own onto the boy's upper back and shoulders and then let loose with a right hook to the head. The impact of his fist with the hard bone on the side of Tyrell's skull made his knuckles sting but Bret blocked it out. While Wyatt seemed to be relishing the chance to beat Ty up Bret didn't share his brothers' enthusiasm. He was still considering all the different angles and what they needed to be aware of. Wyatt's stupid yelling had a chance of attracting someone's attention so Bret didn't want to take any longer than they needed to.
As he flexed his still stinging hand out Bret spoke.
"Don't you ever talk about Ivy like that again."
With the ambush sprung and Tyrell on the ground, Bret moved in. The element of surprise had given them the advantage and they needed to keep it up. A few hits, rough him up, tell him never to talk shit about Ivy again and then get out. The whole thing was probably going to last thirty seconds and that was if Bret was being generous. There wasn't much Tyrell could do from his current position. Wyatt had done a good job on that front. All of the boxing experience in the world didn't mean anything if you were too busy trying to get up.
Moving around to the front of Tyrell, Bret dropped two punches of his own onto the boy's upper back and shoulders and then let loose with a right hook to the head. The impact of his fist with the hard bone on the side of Tyrell's skull made his knuckles sting but Bret blocked it out. While Wyatt seemed to be relishing the chance to beat Ty up Bret didn't share his brothers' enthusiasm. He was still considering all the different angles and what they needed to be aware of. Wyatt's stupid yelling had a chance of attracting someone's attention so Bret didn't want to take any longer than they needed to.
As he flexed his still stinging hand out Bret spoke.
"Don't you ever talk about Ivy like that again."
V8
Aracelis Fuentes
California “Cali” Fox
Darryl Smith Jr.
Jessica Romero
Roberta “Robbie” Woodvine
Aracelis Fuentes
California “Cali” Fox
Darryl Smith Jr.
Jessica Romero
Roberta “Robbie” Woodvine
What the-
The first hit sent him reeling. It wasn't even pain at first, so much as the kind of sensation that overrides everything else with panic and confusion. Ty had felt this before. Then came the tingling, stinging pain as he struggled to regain his sense of balance. Black and white specks of light danced around his vision, as Tyrell struggled to figure out what exactly was going on. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard a voice, but he was too dazed to make out what it was. Then, came a shot to the spine. It was a jab, but it hurt nonetheless. It jostled him out of his stupor, and he anticipated the next hit headed for his skull. Most people went for the head.
Ow.
A crack, and an uncomfortably numb sensation ran up his side. The shot was to the ribs. He had tried to move but his assailant was holding onto his shirt. Then, he wasn't. Ty stumbled forward on the ground, trying to place distance between the two of them. As he was getting to his feet, more hits came from the front.
Up. Get up.
The first two landed without much recourse on his part - he was still too far on the ground to do anything. It was only more pain. Pain from the back of his head, pain from his shoulders, pain from his ribs. It was enough to cause him to utter something of a yelp, more or less involuntarily. As Ty was able to leave his left knee and stand for the first time since this had all started, the last hit landed squarely to the side of his head. Something Ty was familiar with, though it wasn't a exactly comfortable sensation. He rolled with the hit this time, falling back to his knee once more. It hurt, and he'd no doubt look like shit before this was over. But he now knew where he stood, and the spots in his vision were starting to clear. Looking to his assailant, he was surprised by what he saw.
Bret Carter? The fuck did I ever do to you?
Before Bret was finished speaking, Ty suddenly rose to his feet and aimed a jab to the side of his head. It was a feint. Someone like Bret would raise their hands to protect the head, and leave it open. The real hit was the hook that followed, aimed at the ribs. It could wind him. The last was a cross, to pass whatever wild swing was going to follow. He held nothing back. As his fist connected with Bret's face, he could feel something give. Ty hoped he'd broken bone, or at least cut him open.
Oh, shit.
There was a second voice. As he backed away from where Bret had been standing, he looked to see Wyatt Carter no doubt angling for another assault. Most people would think twice after Ty's wordless retort to Bret, but Wyatt wouldn't. Ty shook his head, clarity returning to his thoughts once more. The pain awoke something in him. The energy that had pushed him out the door today - it had purpose now. Most people would do everything they could to avoid this kind of pain, the obvious signal from the body to the mind that something was wrong. After all Ty had been through, all of the times he'd been broken - it became familiar. Old habit, to feel nerves on fire. After a while it didn't have to be a bad thing, if it had purpose. If it brought him focus. He could enjoy it.
And I do.
Tyrell shuffled back on his feet, forming a loose stance. He smiled at Wyatt, the kind of grin most people would neither often see or expect from Ty. Unlike most of the times in a given day he was compelled to flash a smile, it was genuine. This was exciting. Tasting blood, he realized he must've been bleeding from the head. It was Wyatt who started this, it must've been. He spat in Wyatt's direction.
"You can do better than that, asshole."
Without waiting for a reply, Ty sprung into action. He made the most out of the fact that Wyatt was a big target, and had an incredibly punchable face. Ty was more vicious and unrestrained that he would've been fighting someone in a ring. Wyatt could only do so much with brute strength, but it was enough, and Ty needed to put this piece of shit down as fast as possible.
If it's possible.
The first hit sent him reeling. It wasn't even pain at first, so much as the kind of sensation that overrides everything else with panic and confusion. Ty had felt this before. Then came the tingling, stinging pain as he struggled to regain his sense of balance. Black and white specks of light danced around his vision, as Tyrell struggled to figure out what exactly was going on. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard a voice, but he was too dazed to make out what it was. Then, came a shot to the spine. It was a jab, but it hurt nonetheless. It jostled him out of his stupor, and he anticipated the next hit headed for his skull. Most people went for the head.
Ow.
A crack, and an uncomfortably numb sensation ran up his side. The shot was to the ribs. He had tried to move but his assailant was holding onto his shirt. Then, he wasn't. Ty stumbled forward on the ground, trying to place distance between the two of them. As he was getting to his feet, more hits came from the front.
Up. Get up.
The first two landed without much recourse on his part - he was still too far on the ground to do anything. It was only more pain. Pain from the back of his head, pain from his shoulders, pain from his ribs. It was enough to cause him to utter something of a yelp, more or less involuntarily. As Ty was able to leave his left knee and stand for the first time since this had all started, the last hit landed squarely to the side of his head. Something Ty was familiar with, though it wasn't a exactly comfortable sensation. He rolled with the hit this time, falling back to his knee once more. It hurt, and he'd no doubt look like shit before this was over. But he now knew where he stood, and the spots in his vision were starting to clear. Looking to his assailant, he was surprised by what he saw.
Bret Carter? The fuck did I ever do to you?
Before Bret was finished speaking, Ty suddenly rose to his feet and aimed a jab to the side of his head. It was a feint. Someone like Bret would raise their hands to protect the head, and leave it open. The real hit was the hook that followed, aimed at the ribs. It could wind him. The last was a cross, to pass whatever wild swing was going to follow. He held nothing back. As his fist connected with Bret's face, he could feel something give. Ty hoped he'd broken bone, or at least cut him open.
Oh, shit.
There was a second voice. As he backed away from where Bret had been standing, he looked to see Wyatt Carter no doubt angling for another assault. Most people would think twice after Ty's wordless retort to Bret, but Wyatt wouldn't. Ty shook his head, clarity returning to his thoughts once more. The pain awoke something in him. The energy that had pushed him out the door today - it had purpose now. Most people would do everything they could to avoid this kind of pain, the obvious signal from the body to the mind that something was wrong. After all Ty had been through, all of the times he'd been broken - it became familiar. Old habit, to feel nerves on fire. After a while it didn't have to be a bad thing, if it had purpose. If it brought him focus. He could enjoy it.
And I do.
Tyrell shuffled back on his feet, forming a loose stance. He smiled at Wyatt, the kind of grin most people would neither often see or expect from Ty. Unlike most of the times in a given day he was compelled to flash a smile, it was genuine. This was exciting. Tasting blood, he realized he must've been bleeding from the head. It was Wyatt who started this, it must've been. He spat in Wyatt's direction.
"You can do better than that, asshole."
Without waiting for a reply, Ty sprung into action. He made the most out of the fact that Wyatt was a big target, and had an incredibly punchable face. Ty was more vicious and unrestrained that he would've been fighting someone in a ring. Wyatt could only do so much with brute strength, but it was enough, and Ty needed to put this piece of shit down as fast as possible.
If it's possible.
-
MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
The afterglow that came with feeling damn proud of yourself for delivering a powerful hit.
Wyatt felt that every time he stepped onto the field; it was a rare game that didn't throw a faulty offensive line at him, exposing a runningback or quarterback just begging to be brought down to the dirt before they could get across the line, or throw the ball away in a desperate bid to avoid an inevitable collision. That same rush surged through each of his shoulders, down his arms all the way to his fists and back up again when he struck Ty, meeting the tingle headed up his spine. Bret was right on point, having his own bit of fun. Those punches didn't look like nothin' special but hey, they weren't out to kill the kid, more like rough him up and teach him a lesson.
Bret said something, though Wyatt wasn't really listening intently enough to hear anything apart from the word 'Ivy'. His mind was preoccupied with stalking Tyrell at about 5 o' clock or so, waiting for him to get up off his knees. He was expecting Ty to shake off the punches and stand back up to meet some more. He was NOT expecting the kid to pop up like a spring was stuck up his ass, letting loose with seemingly wild, aimless swings to Bret's head and midsection. The kid had gotten three punches out before Wyatt's weight was even off his back foot, at least from what he'd counted.
Okay. Señor Disrespect wanted to play that way? The Carter brothers didn't take shit in the school system from anybody for eleven years, they sure as shit weren't about to start in the middle of year twelve. If you hit one of them, they hit you back, and they don't stop hitting you until you can't manage the strength to lift an arm.
Wyatt was closing the distance when Ty finished polishing Bret's face. His sentient man-bun of a twin had taken one hell of a hook, but Wyatt knew Bret. That wasn't the hardest hit the dumbass had ever taken with his head - hell, it probably didn't even rank tenth. He might be sore in the morning, but he'd get back up. Nothing to worry about, there. He was given pause, though, when Tyrell defiantly spat at him, pinkish spit landing on his shorts.
He stared at the offending fluid that now stained his shorts, Ty's taunt ringing in his ears.
"You can do better than that, asshole."
You can do better than that.
Wyatt leveled his chin, feeling his lip curling up beyond copper-clenched teeth. He had his right arm back for a wide hook, staring at his target: that insufferable woodpile-crawler's temple. Ty met with him on that junction, and he was there first with three knuckles connecting solidly before Wyatt's own punch could see the light of day past his own shoulder. The force of the blow was absorbed by the muscles in his neck, he at least had the foresight to drop his brow to attempt to take the punch with his forehead, but the strike landed just above his left eye. Any hopes of seeing anything stopped as the entire world flashed in a series of brightly colored lights no matter how tightly shut he squeezed his eyes. He wasn't sure what happened first: his hands coming up to protect his face from the followup shots, or tottering down to his right knee, the skin parting before the dirt and gravel in a cut only half as deep as the one that just opened up over his eyebrow, trailing bloody tears over the side of his face in mere seconds.
Wyatt felt that every time he stepped onto the field; it was a rare game that didn't throw a faulty offensive line at him, exposing a runningback or quarterback just begging to be brought down to the dirt before they could get across the line, or throw the ball away in a desperate bid to avoid an inevitable collision. That same rush surged through each of his shoulders, down his arms all the way to his fists and back up again when he struck Ty, meeting the tingle headed up his spine. Bret was right on point, having his own bit of fun. Those punches didn't look like nothin' special but hey, they weren't out to kill the kid, more like rough him up and teach him a lesson.
Bret said something, though Wyatt wasn't really listening intently enough to hear anything apart from the word 'Ivy'. His mind was preoccupied with stalking Tyrell at about 5 o' clock or so, waiting for him to get up off his knees. He was expecting Ty to shake off the punches and stand back up to meet some more. He was NOT expecting the kid to pop up like a spring was stuck up his ass, letting loose with seemingly wild, aimless swings to Bret's head and midsection. The kid had gotten three punches out before Wyatt's weight was even off his back foot, at least from what he'd counted.
Okay. Señor Disrespect wanted to play that way? The Carter brothers didn't take shit in the school system from anybody for eleven years, they sure as shit weren't about to start in the middle of year twelve. If you hit one of them, they hit you back, and they don't stop hitting you until you can't manage the strength to lift an arm.
Wyatt was closing the distance when Ty finished polishing Bret's face. His sentient man-bun of a twin had taken one hell of a hook, but Wyatt knew Bret. That wasn't the hardest hit the dumbass had ever taken with his head - hell, it probably didn't even rank tenth. He might be sore in the morning, but he'd get back up. Nothing to worry about, there. He was given pause, though, when Tyrell defiantly spat at him, pinkish spit landing on his shorts.
He stared at the offending fluid that now stained his shorts, Ty's taunt ringing in his ears.
"You can do better than that, asshole."
You can do better than that.
Wyatt leveled his chin, feeling his lip curling up beyond copper-clenched teeth. He had his right arm back for a wide hook, staring at his target: that insufferable woodpile-crawler's temple. Ty met with him on that junction, and he was there first with three knuckles connecting solidly before Wyatt's own punch could see the light of day past his own shoulder. The force of the blow was absorbed by the muscles in his neck, he at least had the foresight to drop his brow to attempt to take the punch with his forehead, but the strike landed just above his left eye. Any hopes of seeing anything stopped as the entire world flashed in a series of brightly colored lights no matter how tightly shut he squeezed his eyes. He wasn't sure what happened first: his hands coming up to protect his face from the followup shots, or tottering down to his right knee, the skin parting before the dirt and gravel in a cut only half as deep as the one that just opened up over his eyebrow, trailing bloody tears over the side of his face in mere seconds.
Bret took the impact of the punch on the side of his face and he stumbled back stars dancing in his vision and the familiar ringing returning. The two blows in quick succession had taken him off balance. Luckily for Bret, he had a beard in the literal and figurative sense so he managed to stay standing. He did step back though. One of his legs nearly gave way as he did so but it wasn't the first time he had taken a hard hit, keeping his cool and his breathing steady he got his feet back under him. He was stunned but he could keep going. In the time it had taken Bret to get his legs back under him the situation had gone from manageable to bad.
He saw the Shrek like form of his brother stumble and then hit the deck as he got his head back in the game. It was his worst fear realized, and the entire reason he hadn't wanted anything to do with Ty. There was always that chance of one lucky shot landing. It was Ivy's fault and by extension, it was his fault. The plan had been a good one but the small percentage that he hadn't been fully confident in had come back to bite them. It was supposed to have been simple.
All thoughts of the immediate plan forgotten Bret went into protection mode. He had been doing it for Ivy originally sure, but now he was out to protect his brother.
With one hand Bret grabbed hold of Ty's jacket, he used his grip to pull the other boy towards him while forcing him down at the same time in an attempt to keep him off balance as he used his free hand to throw two more punches straight at Ty's head.
He saw the Shrek like form of his brother stumble and then hit the deck as he got his head back in the game. It was his worst fear realized, and the entire reason he hadn't wanted anything to do with Ty. There was always that chance of one lucky shot landing. It was Ivy's fault and by extension, it was his fault. The plan had been a good one but the small percentage that he hadn't been fully confident in had come back to bite them. It was supposed to have been simple.
All thoughts of the immediate plan forgotten Bret went into protection mode. He had been doing it for Ivy originally sure, but now he was out to protect his brother.
With one hand Bret grabbed hold of Ty's jacket, he used his grip to pull the other boy towards him while forcing him down at the same time in an attempt to keep him off balance as he used his free hand to throw two more punches straight at Ty's head.
V8
Aracelis Fuentes
California “Cali” Fox
Darryl Smith Jr.
Jessica Romero
Roberta “Robbie” Woodvine
Aracelis Fuentes
California “Cali” Fox
Darryl Smith Jr.
Jessica Romero
Roberta “Robbie” Woodvine
Ty felt a certain degree of satisfaction in seeing blood on his hands that wasn't his own; especially if it was from someone like Wyatt. It was the difference between a street fight and one in a ring. A competition was just that - two people testing their skills against one another. There wasn't anything at stake beyond points or bragging rights. Shit that really didn't matter at the end of the day, all things considered. One thing that always caught people off guard when he fought was how calm Ty seemed. It was hard to read his eyes, to guess what he was going to do next. His coach thought he had a good poker face; his peers thought he was "cold." The reality was, he wasn't putting on an act or suppressing his emotions. It didn't matter, so he didn't feel anything. Either he won, which he found kind of fun, or he lost and had to get improve. There was nothing to suppress.
Out here, with these two meatheads attacking him out of the blue, all that mattered was who got to walk away and who wouldn't. People were trying to break him. It made him feel something more than the structure of a match ever could. His heart raced, and he couldn't help but feel exhilarated at the thought of where this might go. All he had to do was hurt these people, and make it home alive. He might not win, but he had to hurt them. If he walked away from this, he got to be the guy who beat the holy hell out of the Carters. If he didn't, well - people would be sympathetic. Enough people hated these two, especially Wyatt, that they'd probably admire Ty for standing up for himself. Someone had to do stand up to these assholes, and who else could have? It was the kind of attention Ty thought he deserved after all he'd been through. Certainly after this.
Though some small part of his mind parsed why exactly they had done it - apparently something to do with that pastel cunt who had them both wrapped around her fingers - it really didn't matter at this point. There were probably a lot of people who fantasized about Wyatt leaving their lives in a stretcher or a body bag; he wasn't going to get any sympathy for this. No one would care why someone had decided to rearrange his face, because everyone could think of a reason why he deserved it. Anyone who couldn't was probably as much of a waste of space as he was.
As Wyatt fell to his knee, Ty took a step back to get into a decent position. There was only so much he could do with his fists, and he needed to leave a mark Wyatt wasn't going to walk away from. His work shoes had steel toes, and a kick to the head was going to leave a lot more damage than he could hope to do with bare knuckles. As he was about to strike, he felt a violent tug on his jacket. Off-balance, he tumbled backwards as Bret struck him twice - once in the side of the head, the other in the same place Wyatt had struck him earlier.
Fuck! How the hell are you still standing?
Pain shot up Tyrell's side as he hit the ground, shaking involuntarily as he was momentarily overwhelmed. Gray encircled his vision as he struggled to get to his feet, half-gasping and half-laughing as he did so. Years ago he'd learned to laugh when his father hit him hard enough. It really pissed him off, and it was the only thing Ty had left at that point. He wanted more than anything to hit back, but out of breath and his hands shaking, he could only barely get to his feet and scramble away from Bret. Trying to get back into anything resembling a stance felt like a herculean effort, and he could only barely raise his hands to block whatever was coming next.
Out here, with these two meatheads attacking him out of the blue, all that mattered was who got to walk away and who wouldn't. People were trying to break him. It made him feel something more than the structure of a match ever could. His heart raced, and he couldn't help but feel exhilarated at the thought of where this might go. All he had to do was hurt these people, and make it home alive. He might not win, but he had to hurt them. If he walked away from this, he got to be the guy who beat the holy hell out of the Carters. If he didn't, well - people would be sympathetic. Enough people hated these two, especially Wyatt, that they'd probably admire Ty for standing up for himself. Someone had to do stand up to these assholes, and who else could have? It was the kind of attention Ty thought he deserved after all he'd been through. Certainly after this.
Though some small part of his mind parsed why exactly they had done it - apparently something to do with that pastel cunt who had them both wrapped around her fingers - it really didn't matter at this point. There were probably a lot of people who fantasized about Wyatt leaving their lives in a stretcher or a body bag; he wasn't going to get any sympathy for this. No one would care why someone had decided to rearrange his face, because everyone could think of a reason why he deserved it. Anyone who couldn't was probably as much of a waste of space as he was.
As Wyatt fell to his knee, Ty took a step back to get into a decent position. There was only so much he could do with his fists, and he needed to leave a mark Wyatt wasn't going to walk away from. His work shoes had steel toes, and a kick to the head was going to leave a lot more damage than he could hope to do with bare knuckles. As he was about to strike, he felt a violent tug on his jacket. Off-balance, he tumbled backwards as Bret struck him twice - once in the side of the head, the other in the same place Wyatt had struck him earlier.
Fuck! How the hell are you still standing?
Pain shot up Tyrell's side as he hit the ground, shaking involuntarily as he was momentarily overwhelmed. Gray encircled his vision as he struggled to get to his feet, half-gasping and half-laughing as he did so. Years ago he'd learned to laugh when his father hit him hard enough. It really pissed him off, and it was the only thing Ty had left at that point. He wanted more than anything to hit back, but out of breath and his hands shaking, he could only barely get to his feet and scramble away from Bret. Trying to get back into anything resembling a stance felt like a herculean effort, and he could only barely raise his hands to block whatever was coming next.
-
MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
Bret's interference opened the window necessary for his brother to shift weight back to his load-bearing weight, inhaling through a miraculously untouched nose in order to chase it with a sharp exhale as his over-sized frame was hoisted back up near to its full height. The strike to the eye had been a real shocker and it had done its damage, but it hadn't come close to knocking Wyatt out. That was a job reserved for the follow-up strike, and it looked like that wouldn't be coming anytime soon for as long as Ty was relegated to doing little more than covering up.
Now that Wyatt was back on his feet, Ty's problems were only going from bad to worse.
Ignoring the tickling and burning coming from the gash above his eye, Wyatt needed just a few steps to close the distance between himself and his target. Ty had only just gotten back up to his feet himself after being thrown off balance. A shoulder introduced itself to just underneath his sternum, helping Ty even further off the ground - a full foot, in fact, as Wyatt locked his hands around the back of Tyrell's thighs and brought him as far up as he could with a roar throughout the ascent, then tucked his shoulder in to turn Ty level with the ground and drop him straight onto his spine.
The quarterback was sacked, the play dead, the game won. Everybody could go home. If only this was a football game, and if only the beating was done. But this, this was not nearly enough. Ty still had all his teeth. He wasn't cut up and bleeding. Bones hadn't been broken. Wild and frenzied, Wyatt followed Ty to the ground and pressed a knee into the center of the bottom of his chest. Each time a hand came up, it swung down at Ty's head like a grizzly bear's slap, repeatedly bowling at Ty's head with the intent to knock it clean off, all while nearly three hundred pounds of pressure rocked up and down on that knee and on the boy's straining ribs.
Now that Wyatt was back on his feet, Ty's problems were only going from bad to worse.
Ignoring the tickling and burning coming from the gash above his eye, Wyatt needed just a few steps to close the distance between himself and his target. Ty had only just gotten back up to his feet himself after being thrown off balance. A shoulder introduced itself to just underneath his sternum, helping Ty even further off the ground - a full foot, in fact, as Wyatt locked his hands around the back of Tyrell's thighs and brought him as far up as he could with a roar throughout the ascent, then tucked his shoulder in to turn Ty level with the ground and drop him straight onto his spine.
The quarterback was sacked, the play dead, the game won. Everybody could go home. If only this was a football game, and if only the beating was done. But this, this was not nearly enough. Ty still had all his teeth. He wasn't cut up and bleeding. Bones hadn't been broken. Wild and frenzied, Wyatt followed Ty to the ground and pressed a knee into the center of the bottom of his chest. Each time a hand came up, it swung down at Ty's head like a grizzly bear's slap, repeatedly bowling at Ty's head with the intent to knock it clean off, all while nearly three hundred pounds of pressure rocked up and down on that knee and on the boy's straining ribs.
Ty got hit by him and fell just as planned. Bret appreciated his work in that regard. It was about the only thing that had gone right since they had begun. Ty though still insisted on standing up, Bret appreciated that in a way as well. Ty was taking his beating like a man.
Then, of course, the rhino got itself back up and plowed into the boy at full speed, picking Ty up and carrying him a good foot before slamming him into the ground with enough force that Bret was convinced Wyatt thought he was planting a stake. It was as vicious a hit Bret had seen Wyatt give to someone who wasn't him or wasn't wearing pads. He then started throwing in some ground and pound as well.
In the time it took Bret to close the distance that Wyatt's tackle had put between him and the pair, his brother had dropped at least four or five heavy shots to Ty's head and face. Bret knew he needed to stop him.
He waited.
After two more blows, Bret stepped in. He grabbed his brothers raised arm around the wrist to prevent him from doing any more damage. "It's over."
Then, of course, the rhino got itself back up and plowed into the boy at full speed, picking Ty up and carrying him a good foot before slamming him into the ground with enough force that Bret was convinced Wyatt thought he was planting a stake. It was as vicious a hit Bret had seen Wyatt give to someone who wasn't him or wasn't wearing pads. He then started throwing in some ground and pound as well.
In the time it took Bret to close the distance that Wyatt's tackle had put between him and the pair, his brother had dropped at least four or five heavy shots to Ty's head and face. Bret knew he needed to stop him.
He waited.
After two more blows, Bret stepped in. He grabbed his brothers raised arm around the wrist to prevent him from doing any more damage. "It's over."
V8
Aracelis Fuentes
California “Cali” Fox
Darryl Smith Jr.
Jessica Romero
Roberta “Robbie” Woodvine
Aracelis Fuentes
California “Cali” Fox
Darryl Smith Jr.
Jessica Romero
Roberta “Robbie” Woodvine
Ty hit the ground hard, and Wyatt wasn’t far behind. He could only struggle to keep the blows from landing directly. Wyatt’s knee was putting more pressure on his chest, which meant that his side was once again in incredible amounts of pain. Though he was at the very least capable of putting up some resistance, at this point it occurred to Ty that unless he could motivate Wyatt to move, the fight was over. What could he even do?
He’s not stopping.
The Carters didn’t have much of a mind to fight fairly. Why should he?
I’m on the ground. Hit at the wrong angle and this could go from bad to worse.
What had he done to deserve this?
I could die.
Nobody looking in at this situation would see anything other than a violent assault.
I’ll say that’s what I was thinking. “I might not make it out of this.” I had to do something.
Another hit. Ty had turned his head but it still split his lip open. The punches stopped for a moment, and he heard Bret’s voice again. With his ears ringing and his head spinning, Ty couldn’t make out what was said. What he knew now was that with Bret standing over him, the situation had become even more dire. He was struck by a sudden, uncomfortable tightness in his chest. It was a familiar sensation, though he didn't recognize it at first:
Panic.
With one arm trying to protect his face, he reached with the other into the right pocket of his jeans. It was hard to get to with Wyatt’s knee pressing into his chest. The pressure eased as Wyatt seemed to react to something, which gave Tyrell the opening to roll to his side and away. It felt like someone pressed a hot iron into his skin as he rolled over what he could only surmise was a broken rib. Ty tried to stand up but found his legs weak underneath him, and fell back to his knees before laboriously finding his footing once more. Coughing, he spat blood onto the ground. The feeling of panic gave way to rage.
You don't get to walk away from this. You don't get to make me feel that. No one does, not anymore.
Tyrell’s hand found the metal it had been searching for, now that he could reach it. In every sense of the expression, he was saw red. With the hand opposite his injured rib, he drew his pocket knife and flipped it open. The blade was nearly four inches long, large for an everyday-carry knife. He’d never had any need to use it out in town, but this was different.
Stepping back, he anticipated the next strike. It didn’t come, and as he locked bloodshot eyes with the two of them, he saw they weren’t advancing. He realized that Bret must’ve told Wyatt to stop. It was over.
No. It’s not. You’re going to die, Wyatt. I don’t give a shit, I’m going to bury this in your thick skull.
He took a deep breath, not taking his eyes off of them. The metal handle dug into his skin as he gripped it tightly. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to stop himself. It wouldn’t do any good.
It would make me feel better.
But it wouldn’t improve the situation. Much the opposite, and Tyrell knew this. Through dizzying waves of pain and with blood dripping from his mouth, he could only shoot them a look of naked hatred and frustration. Knife in one hand, and the other cradling his injured side, he remained still. Unable to walk away, and unwilling to take the only action that seemed to make any kind of sense to him. The only thing that seemed appropriate.
I need you to hurt. I need this.
Tyrell stood his ground, without moving. It was all he could force himself to do.
He’s not stopping.
The Carters didn’t have much of a mind to fight fairly. Why should he?
I’m on the ground. Hit at the wrong angle and this could go from bad to worse.
What had he done to deserve this?
I could die.
Nobody looking in at this situation would see anything other than a violent assault.
I’ll say that’s what I was thinking. “I might not make it out of this.” I had to do something.
Another hit. Ty had turned his head but it still split his lip open. The punches stopped for a moment, and he heard Bret’s voice again. With his ears ringing and his head spinning, Ty couldn’t make out what was said. What he knew now was that with Bret standing over him, the situation had become even more dire. He was struck by a sudden, uncomfortable tightness in his chest. It was a familiar sensation, though he didn't recognize it at first:
Panic.
With one arm trying to protect his face, he reached with the other into the right pocket of his jeans. It was hard to get to with Wyatt’s knee pressing into his chest. The pressure eased as Wyatt seemed to react to something, which gave Tyrell the opening to roll to his side and away. It felt like someone pressed a hot iron into his skin as he rolled over what he could only surmise was a broken rib. Ty tried to stand up but found his legs weak underneath him, and fell back to his knees before laboriously finding his footing once more. Coughing, he spat blood onto the ground. The feeling of panic gave way to rage.
You don't get to walk away from this. You don't get to make me feel that. No one does, not anymore.
Tyrell’s hand found the metal it had been searching for, now that he could reach it. In every sense of the expression, he was saw red. With the hand opposite his injured rib, he drew his pocket knife and flipped it open. The blade was nearly four inches long, large for an everyday-carry knife. He’d never had any need to use it out in town, but this was different.
Stepping back, he anticipated the next strike. It didn’t come, and as he locked bloodshot eyes with the two of them, he saw they weren’t advancing. He realized that Bret must’ve told Wyatt to stop. It was over.
No. It’s not. You’re going to die, Wyatt. I don’t give a shit, I’m going to bury this in your thick skull.
He took a deep breath, not taking his eyes off of them. The metal handle dug into his skin as he gripped it tightly. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to stop himself. It wouldn’t do any good.
It would make me feel better.
But it wouldn’t improve the situation. Much the opposite, and Tyrell knew this. Through dizzying waves of pain and with blood dripping from his mouth, he could only shoot them a look of naked hatred and frustration. Knife in one hand, and the other cradling his injured side, he remained still. Unable to walk away, and unwilling to take the only action that seemed to make any kind of sense to him. The only thing that seemed appropriate.
I need you to hurt. I need this.
Tyrell stood his ground, without moving. It was all he could force himself to do.
As Tyrell removed the knife from his pants pocket and dragged himself to his feet, two sets of eyes instantly focused upon it, the fight having escalated to a whole other level. Except no, that wasn't correct. There were in fact three sets of eyes that focused in upon the knife that Tyrell now unsteadily held in his hand, and the third set of eyes had finally seen enough.
Claudeson Bademosi had been silently watching the fight for longer than he would ever admit to anyone.
((Claudeson Bademosi continued from Aegis Commission))
"Hey! Hey, that's enough! Stop it! All of you, stop it!"
As he stepped forward from the spot just off the path where he'd borne witness to the tussle, he held his smartphone out in front of him, the numbers for 9-1-1 easily discernible to any of the three. It hadn't yet gotten to be too dark, but the evening was fast approaching, and the sun was starting to go down, leaving the screen from his phone to cast a small illumination from out in front of him. Contrary to the gnawing internal curiosity that Claudeson had seemingly allowed himself to see how far this fight would have gone, he now wore an expression of disbelief; one that almost bordered upon disappointment.
This fell far more in line with the image of Claudeson Bademosi that all three of his schoolmates were familiar with.
He'd happened upon the scuffle by chance, out for one of his evening runs - runs that were becoming far more common as the end of school approached. The feeling of anxiety, of uncertainty was becoming a more constant companion, and the only reprise that he found himself able to consistently count on was that of adrenaline. Of course, as he'd jogged down the path that he'd taken at least twice that week already, he had been surprised to see the initial assault on Tyrell, and had quickly ducked out of the way so as not to become involved.
But involved, he now was, as Tyrell had found himself in a situation that dictated use of a more formidable weapon than his fists had proven to be. Which was a line that Claudeson could not abide by, even if deep down, he understood the reasoning behind. Two on one wasn't a fair fight, even for someone as obviously learned as Tyrell. All three combatants looked as though they'd sustained a few licks. Stepping forward again, he shot a serious look at the Carters, cellular phone extended, one finger poised over the green call button.
"What are you thinking? This kind of violence is no way for reasonable men to act," his attention turned to Tyrell. "Right, Tyrell? Put the knife down. We don't need a visit from the authorities, do we?"
He gestured the phone at all three of them, standing his ground with a bit of a sanctimonious lilt to his words.
"Do we?"
Claudeson Bademosi had been silently watching the fight for longer than he would ever admit to anyone.
((Claudeson Bademosi continued from Aegis Commission))
"Hey! Hey, that's enough! Stop it! All of you, stop it!"
As he stepped forward from the spot just off the path where he'd borne witness to the tussle, he held his smartphone out in front of him, the numbers for 9-1-1 easily discernible to any of the three. It hadn't yet gotten to be too dark, but the evening was fast approaching, and the sun was starting to go down, leaving the screen from his phone to cast a small illumination from out in front of him. Contrary to the gnawing internal curiosity that Claudeson had seemingly allowed himself to see how far this fight would have gone, he now wore an expression of disbelief; one that almost bordered upon disappointment.
This fell far more in line with the image of Claudeson Bademosi that all three of his schoolmates were familiar with.
He'd happened upon the scuffle by chance, out for one of his evening runs - runs that were becoming far more common as the end of school approached. The feeling of anxiety, of uncertainty was becoming a more constant companion, and the only reprise that he found himself able to consistently count on was that of adrenaline. Of course, as he'd jogged down the path that he'd taken at least twice that week already, he had been surprised to see the initial assault on Tyrell, and had quickly ducked out of the way so as not to become involved.
But involved, he now was, as Tyrell had found himself in a situation that dictated use of a more formidable weapon than his fists had proven to be. Which was a line that Claudeson could not abide by, even if deep down, he understood the reasoning behind. Two on one wasn't a fair fight, even for someone as obviously learned as Tyrell. All three combatants looked as though they'd sustained a few licks. Stepping forward again, he shot a serious look at the Carters, cellular phone extended, one finger poised over the green call button.
"What are you thinking? This kind of violence is no way for reasonable men to act," his attention turned to Tyrell. "Right, Tyrell? Put the knife down. We don't need a visit from the authorities, do we?"
He gestured the phone at all three of them, standing his ground with a bit of a sanctimonious lilt to his words.
"Do we?"
-
MK Kilmarnock
- Posts: 1931
- Joined: Fri Aug 10, 2018 5:28 am
- Location: On one of the coasts, generally
Break his face. Beat him up. Break his neck. Knock the damn thing off his shoulders, just fucking. Kill Him. Wyatt's mind had been operating on base primal instinct for a few seconds stretched like a skin across the drum of the beating he was administering to Tyrell. The more helpless his situation, the better, and there was no reflection given to just when he might stop.
That was, until something firmly gripped at his arm. Wyatt still pulled it forward, and it even made some headway, but what had gripped him pulled back even harder with the leverage of firm footing against a single arm and the shoulder thrusting it, erasing. He did not spend much time entertaining the thought of throwing Bret across the path before loosening from the blinding cloud of his rage, bringing weight to his off-hip so he could stand up. Bret said the beating was over, so it looked like there'd be no more whipping today.
Wyatt snorted and parted ways with Ty by hawking a pink-hued glob of mucus-laden spit at the boy, who rolled off to start to get back up to his feet. If he knew what was good for him, he'd limp off like a beaten dog, tail tucked between his legs all the way home, nobody would have to speak of this and Ty would walk away with two lessons: Don't fuck with the Carters, and don't fuck with anybody they happen to give a shit about. "Get off me, man," he muttered, wiggling his shoulder and watching Tyrell, hand stuck in his own pocket like he was trying to grab his own dick-
Oh.
Oh fuck, that ain't no dick he just pulled out, not unless that motherfucker be detachable.
"Jesus Christ," Wyatt breathed, letting his head lean to one side as he breathed out. Were they really doing this? Did this assclown really bring a knife to a beating and bring it out AFTER the main event was already over? And if that wasn't enough excitement for one day, his attention was pulled - but only very momentarily, given the amount of attention demanded by a knife held by a pissed off sunuvabitch who just got tossed back into the trailer park - by the arrival of the mandatory daily narc here to ruin the excitement.
Actually, that wasn't being very fair to Claude. Behind all that holier-than-thou bullshit was a guy who provided a pretty convenient way for this to end without shit getting crazy just because somebody couldn't handle that he got his wig split. Wyatt spat again, this time on the ground, and dabbed at some of the blood on his face, finally allowing himself to take notice. "Of course not," he finally growled, letting half his lip raise up into a smirk. "This is somethin' we sorted out ourselves, don't need to get no cops involved. Ain't that right, you numb cocksucker?" He directed the comment to Tyrell, taking a step back to match his shoulder with Bret's. "Why don't you listen to the man and put that away, unless you're gonna fuckin' USE it."
That was, until something firmly gripped at his arm. Wyatt still pulled it forward, and it even made some headway, but what had gripped him pulled back even harder with the leverage of firm footing against a single arm and the shoulder thrusting it, erasing. He did not spend much time entertaining the thought of throwing Bret across the path before loosening from the blinding cloud of his rage, bringing weight to his off-hip so he could stand up. Bret said the beating was over, so it looked like there'd be no more whipping today.
Wyatt snorted and parted ways with Ty by hawking a pink-hued glob of mucus-laden spit at the boy, who rolled off to start to get back up to his feet. If he knew what was good for him, he'd limp off like a beaten dog, tail tucked between his legs all the way home, nobody would have to speak of this and Ty would walk away with two lessons: Don't fuck with the Carters, and don't fuck with anybody they happen to give a shit about. "Get off me, man," he muttered, wiggling his shoulder and watching Tyrell, hand stuck in his own pocket like he was trying to grab his own dick-
Oh.
Oh fuck, that ain't no dick he just pulled out, not unless that motherfucker be detachable.
"Jesus Christ," Wyatt breathed, letting his head lean to one side as he breathed out. Were they really doing this? Did this assclown really bring a knife to a beating and bring it out AFTER the main event was already over? And if that wasn't enough excitement for one day, his attention was pulled - but only very momentarily, given the amount of attention demanded by a knife held by a pissed off sunuvabitch who just got tossed back into the trailer park - by the arrival of the mandatory daily narc here to ruin the excitement.
Actually, that wasn't being very fair to Claude. Behind all that holier-than-thou bullshit was a guy who provided a pretty convenient way for this to end without shit getting crazy just because somebody couldn't handle that he got his wig split. Wyatt spat again, this time on the ground, and dabbed at some of the blood on his face, finally allowing himself to take notice. "Of course not," he finally growled, letting half his lip raise up into a smirk. "This is somethin' we sorted out ourselves, don't need to get no cops involved. Ain't that right, you numb cocksucker?" He directed the comment to Tyrell, taking a step back to match his shoulder with Bret's. "Why don't you listen to the man and put that away, unless you're gonna fuckin' USE it."