One of the things that Ivan had taken very seriously in his time gearing up for SOTF was first aid, mostly on the unexpected injuries side of things. He wasn't proficient in field dressing for a bullet wound, but his plan - queue mocking laughter - was always to avoid confrontation versus flinging himself into every fight he could in order to achieve victory. Self surgery was even more of a problem - it usually required a non-dominant hand to accomplish.
Ivan's game so far had been adrenaline filled bursts of manic energy followed almost immediately by passing out for eight to twelve hours at a time, occasionally broken up by a weird zen state where nothing mattered and he looked half asleep. Usually he snapped out of it when he heard a sound, or accidentally moved his wounded shoulder in a way that elicited a sharp gasp. This time went long enough for him to enjoy the utter lack of thought, push away the... last two hours and what he had gotten up to.
He looked upwards at the skyline, sitting with bare feet in the water, a half-sunken schooner rocking gently beneath him. In his hands was a single gatorade - white in colour, a last memory of his little closet in the house boat - the cap twisted off, nothing but backwash and saltwater swishing around inside it.
His forehead was bandaged, utilizing the wobbly, wave-filled water as a mirror to work. A single square of gauze with a damp imprint of an F.
He wondered about home.
Rubbing Alcohol.
Open, tagging Slam.
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The Honeless Beard
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((Junji Yamada continued from Feeble Cursed One!))
Junji had lost track of time. He had lost track of everything.
Stokes was dead. She had to be. He didn’t want to believe it, but he didn’t know how it could have ended differently. Fisk came in right behind him, and he had so many people with him. Stokes had already been bleeding to death. It was impossible that she was still alive.
If he wasn’t so exhausted, who knew what he might have been thinking? Revenge seemed the obvious, but his reaction to so many things in SOTF-TV had been unexpected, it was impossible to say for sure.
All he knew right now was that his shoulder felt horrible. He wasn’t sure if it had stopped bleeding or if he’d just stopped noticing it bleeding, but it was full of lead and he was feeling faint. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going like this. He didn’t think it was that long. But he had no reference for being shot, so who knew?
With no supplies and no allies, it only seemed like a matter of time.
He moved along the jetty in a daze, with no destination in mind. With Stokes gone, there was no destination anymore. SOTF-TV was still going, but he really wanted to ragequit now. Log off and go look at some porn or something. Who cares if he got a ban? That’s what you paid fucks to level up new accounts for you for. Let someone else do the TV grind for him. Let them lose the only people they cared about.
He saw a figure in the distance, sitting with his feet in the water. Walked closer, recognising him from behind. Ivan Kutzasomething. Maybe. Blackspanic Jock. Sort of person he’d normally pull out his gun for and shoot in the back of the head. But he was tired. And he wasn’t sure how stealthy he was being, either.
“Sup.” he called out, not really looking forward enough to tell what Ivan was doing. “It cool if I crash here?”
He knew he should’ve been wary, but as his knees crashed into the jetty, it really didn’t matter any more.
Junji had lost track of time. He had lost track of everything.
Stokes was dead. She had to be. He didn’t want to believe it, but he didn’t know how it could have ended differently. Fisk came in right behind him, and he had so many people with him. Stokes had already been bleeding to death. It was impossible that she was still alive.
If he wasn’t so exhausted, who knew what he might have been thinking? Revenge seemed the obvious, but his reaction to so many things in SOTF-TV had been unexpected, it was impossible to say for sure.
All he knew right now was that his shoulder felt horrible. He wasn’t sure if it had stopped bleeding or if he’d just stopped noticing it bleeding, but it was full of lead and he was feeling faint. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going like this. He didn’t think it was that long. But he had no reference for being shot, so who knew?
With no supplies and no allies, it only seemed like a matter of time.
He moved along the jetty in a daze, with no destination in mind. With Stokes gone, there was no destination anymore. SOTF-TV was still going, but he really wanted to ragequit now. Log off and go look at some porn or something. Who cares if he got a ban? That’s what you paid fucks to level up new accounts for you for. Let someone else do the TV grind for him. Let them lose the only people they cared about.
He saw a figure in the distance, sitting with his feet in the water. Walked closer, recognising him from behind. Ivan Kutzasomething. Maybe. Blackspanic Jock. Sort of person he’d normally pull out his gun for and shoot in the back of the head. But he was tired. And he wasn’t sure how stealthy he was being, either.
“Sup.” he called out, not really looking forward enough to tell what Ivan was doing. “It cool if I crash here?”
He knew he should’ve been wary, but as his knees crashed into the jetty, it really didn’t matter any more.
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The Honeless Beard
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Ivan watched Junji approach with a curious interest, his left eye skating away, making his vision blurry and out of focus. Even still, the figure Junji cut was unmistakable - there was only one person who could have filled his silhouette. His forehead and hair were seperated by an orange bandanna - Ben's Crabs.
Ivan rolled his bare shoulders, climbing back onto the boat, his damp jean cuffs moulding to his ankles.
"Not my boat, man," was Ivan's reply, but he remained wary, casually leaning a hip against the gap in the railing where the ladder descended into the ocean. It was rusty and jagged, filling the water with tendrils of red-brown substances. He'd watched it for twenty minutes, head empty, eye unfocused.
"You look a wreck," Ivan continued, squatting to roll up his pant legs, keeping his hands near the sawed off that was hidden inside his open bag, handle facing his left hand. It'd be a lunge to grab it, but sawed offs don't miss at this range.
"What's your damage?"
Ivan rolled his bare shoulders, climbing back onto the boat, his damp jean cuffs moulding to his ankles.
"Not my boat, man," was Ivan's reply, but he remained wary, casually leaning a hip against the gap in the railing where the ladder descended into the ocean. It was rusty and jagged, filling the water with tendrils of red-brown substances. He'd watched it for twenty minutes, head empty, eye unfocused.
"You look a wreck," Ivan continued, squatting to roll up his pant legs, keeping his hands near the sawed off that was hidden inside his open bag, handle facing his left hand. It'd be a lunge to grab it, but sawed offs don't miss at this range.
"What's your damage?"
“Shot in the fucking arm by Fisk's faggots, that’s my damage.” Junji groaned, not giving Ivan any visual indication. “Feels like a fucking hornet orgy in there.”
His head was still swimming, and he felt faint. If he passed out here, he probably would get his head blown off or his throat slit by Ivan, maybe with his own weapons for irony. Great, what an anti-fucking-climax. Instead of dying in a blaze of glory, he'd die bleeding out like a stuck pig.
But he didn’t have much option, beyond his own willpower. No energy drinks or junk food for the quick overloaded sugar rush like back home. No making fun of some shitstack, no, no…
Fuck.
“Hey,” he groaned, supporting his weight with his hands now. His shoulder threatened to seize up in doing so. “You know first aid? Think I’m fucked without it.”
Didn’t matter how obvious he was making himself. Didn't matter that he was practically saying please. Nothing mattered any more. This could go either way, and he really didn’t care.
His head was still swimming, and he felt faint. If he passed out here, he probably would get his head blown off or his throat slit by Ivan, maybe with his own weapons for irony. Great, what an anti-fucking-climax. Instead of dying in a blaze of glory, he'd die bleeding out like a stuck pig.
But he didn’t have much option, beyond his own willpower. No energy drinks or junk food for the quick overloaded sugar rush like back home. No making fun of some shitstack, no, no…
Fuck.
“Hey,” he groaned, supporting his weight with his hands now. His shoulder threatened to seize up in doing so. “You know first aid? Think I’m fucked without it.”
Didn’t matter how obvious he was making himself. Didn't matter that he was practically saying please. Nothing mattered any more. This could go either way, and he really didn’t care.
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The Honeless Beard
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It's funny - Ivan's been beaten within an inch of his life, shot in the shoulder, taken L after L going over various railings and into the drink as he's made escape after escape, but one use of a slur in a public battle arena has his eyes shooting towards the nearest camera with a frown.
Before he can analyze his own reaction, he stands, grabbing his bag (and the gun) in one hand and scratching idly at the patchy stubble on his face that's been growing in steadily.
"A bit," came Ivan's reply, as he pictured another potential victim of the Respects managing to wiggle free. Seth saved him from them, but he couldn't save Seth. Maybe helping Junji would be something on the road to...
fuck was he kidding. Junji wasn't Seth. Still, it wouldn't hurt to start finally making some allies.
"Take your shirt off and lie down," was Ivan's instruction, reaching into his bag to grab his (Rhonda's) medkit.
Before he can analyze his own reaction, he stands, grabbing his bag (and the gun) in one hand and scratching idly at the patchy stubble on his face that's been growing in steadily.
"A bit," came Ivan's reply, as he pictured another potential victim of the Respects managing to wiggle free. Seth saved him from them, but he couldn't save Seth. Maybe helping Junji would be something on the road to...
fuck was he kidding. Junji wasn't Seth. Still, it wouldn't hurt to start finally making some allies.
"Take your shirt off and lie down," was Ivan's instruction, reaching into his bag to grab his (Rhonda's) medkit.
Haha. Take your shirt off. The easiest fucking thing in the world, and Junji was pretty sure he couldn’t do that. He didn’t think his arm would bend that high any more, much less accept the bits of fabric clinging to the dried blood coming off easily. Thank fuck he was just wearing a tank top; his jacket stashed in his forsaken day-pack days ago, next to that fucking mankini. He wondered if the Respects had found that.
It took all his strength to will himself back onto his knees rather than his hands. He reached for the front of his tank top with his good arm, pulling down on it with what might he still had. It was a cheap off-brand version of an SOTF-TV tank top, because the full version was too overpriced for what it was. He loved the show, back then, but come on. The material came away easily, already worn down from months of washes and days of adrenaline fuelled carnage. He gritted his teeth as the right side clung to his bloodied back and yanked at the mess of a wound, but it felt like it came away from the most part. He was left topless in front of Ivan, covered in nothing but sweat, blood and desperation.
“That good enough for you?” he muttered, tossing the ruined cloth aside. He didn’t have anything to change in to later, but oh well. There might not have been a later, after all.
He laid down, or fell down, on to the floor, on his stomach with cheek pressing into the jetty. His knife and gun were both in reach, but he knew he couldn’t pull them out in time to attack Ivan. He couldn’t even see Ivan's actions clearly from the angle; he was completely exposed and vulnerable, and for all he knew Ivan was about to drop a sledgehammer on his head. Oh well.
It took all his strength to will himself back onto his knees rather than his hands. He reached for the front of his tank top with his good arm, pulling down on it with what might he still had. It was a cheap off-brand version of an SOTF-TV tank top, because the full version was too overpriced for what it was. He loved the show, back then, but come on. The material came away easily, already worn down from months of washes and days of adrenaline fuelled carnage. He gritted his teeth as the right side clung to his bloodied back and yanked at the mess of a wound, but it felt like it came away from the most part. He was left topless in front of Ivan, covered in nothing but sweat, blood and desperation.
“That good enough for you?” he muttered, tossing the ruined cloth aside. He didn’t have anything to change in to later, but oh well. There might not have been a later, after all.
He laid down, or fell down, on to the floor, on his stomach with cheek pressing into the jetty. His knife and gun were both in reach, but he knew he couldn’t pull them out in time to attack Ivan. He couldn’t even see Ivan's actions clearly from the angle; he was completely exposed and vulnerable, and for all he knew Ivan was about to drop a sledgehammer on his head. Oh well.
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The Honeless Beard
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Ivan sucked a big breath in through his teeth, his (Rhonda's) medkit in his hands as he stepped around the larger boy and got to one knee to inspect the wounds. Angry holes lanced across Junji's shoulder and arm, red and swollen and leaking blood. Fibers from the tank top dotted around them, clinging desperately to the punctures, mired in a swampy mixture of fluids.
This... couldn't have been comfortable.
"You really got tagged," Ivan said, feeling along the flesh wound on his own shoulder, thanking every god that was watching that RJ was a shittier shot than the people Junji had run afoul of. He set his (Rhonda's) medkit down open, pulled out a small set of tweezers and a lighter, and flicked the flint, keeping the metal over the flame for a few seconds.
"I'm pretty sure proper field dressing means you can't use this arm, man," Ivan said, "like, in a sling or whatever. You probably don't want that. I'll get the bullets out and plug the holes - might mean you've got a better shot out of this shit.
"Chances are, though, you've gotta make it to the end for medical. Cool to start?"
This... couldn't have been comfortable.
"You really got tagged," Ivan said, feeling along the flesh wound on his own shoulder, thanking every god that was watching that RJ was a shittier shot than the people Junji had run afoul of. He set his (Rhonda's) medkit down open, pulled out a small set of tweezers and a lighter, and flicked the flint, keeping the metal over the flame for a few seconds.
"I'm pretty sure proper field dressing means you can't use this arm, man," Ivan said, "like, in a sling or whatever. You probably don't want that. I'll get the bullets out and plug the holes - might mean you've got a better shot out of this shit.
"Chances are, though, you've gotta make it to the end for medical. Cool to start?"
Junji lay where he was, prone and face down. He couldn’t see the expression on Ivan’s face, or what he was doing with his hands. If he really was going to help him, rather than shove a shiv up his ass, well, that was generous to say the least.
He thought about asking why Ivan was bothering. He still didn’t know what team Ivan was on at this point, since he hadn’t seen a bandanna. He guessed he had to be a Crab if he was helping him. This wasn’t like Cristo back on day one; he’d killed people by now, and people knew it thanks to the announcements. So why help someone on an enemy team, especially someone who had shown their readiness to kill?
Or maybe, like Cristo, Ivan was just an altruistic idiot. He didn’t think he had it in him to repay him the same way, though. Not any more.
He could still remember Cristo’s face looking up at him as he drowned, while he himself held out the life preserver out of reach, like it was someone’s lunch. The sort of thing that had seemed so glamorous just a couple of days ago. The sort of shit he’d pulled off trying to look cool. Trying to make himself feel better.
Fuck.
“Let’s just get it over with.”
He thought about asking why Ivan was bothering. He still didn’t know what team Ivan was on at this point, since he hadn’t seen a bandanna. He guessed he had to be a Crab if he was helping him. This wasn’t like Cristo back on day one; he’d killed people by now, and people knew it thanks to the announcements. So why help someone on an enemy team, especially someone who had shown their readiness to kill?
Or maybe, like Cristo, Ivan was just an altruistic idiot. He didn’t think he had it in him to repay him the same way, though. Not any more.
He could still remember Cristo’s face looking up at him as he drowned, while he himself held out the life preserver out of reach, like it was someone’s lunch. The sort of thing that had seemed so glamorous just a couple of days ago. The sort of shit he’d pulled off trying to look cool. Trying to make himself feel better.
Fuck.
“Let’s just get it over with.”
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The Honeless Beard
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Ivan knelt down in the space between Junji's arm and ribcage, hot tweezers in hand, disinfectant taken from his (Rhonda's) medkit and set on the deck of the slowly rocking ship. He picked up a few tongue depressants, wrapped them in a thin layer of gauze, and reached over Junji, darkened, sunburnt skin appearing in the boy's peripherals.
"Bite down on it," Ivan said, placing it near the larger boy's lips.
Feat accomplished, he poured some salt water on Junji's back, to clear away the loose debris, and set to work.
---
Four lumps of red-tinged lead lay in misshapen lumps on the deck of the ship, dotted by sweat droplets and one intense round of vomiting from Ivan's own stomach. It wasn't great television, watching one classmate yank twisted black balls from another's body, but some supercuts featured it for the unlikely duo angle, the MLM fanfic angle.
His hands had only really stilled twice - both times when the speakers flared to life and Ritzy's nails on chalkboard voice filled the arena. The first pause was upon learning that James had killed Stokes - a little tidbit that made something, some part of him back in Miami, clench.
The second pause was when his name was attached to James. That same part from back home unfurled, relaxed, a warm feeling in the pit of Ivan's stomach. He hoped Fisk could hear it - hoped Ivan's name took up rent-free residence in scarface's head.
Ivan was wrapping gauze around Junji's wounds - clean, disenfected - but he felt it needed repeating.
"Should be in a sling, but you can't fight in a sling. You going after them?"
"Bite down on it," Ivan said, placing it near the larger boy's lips.
Feat accomplished, he poured some salt water on Junji's back, to clear away the loose debris, and set to work.
---
Four lumps of red-tinged lead lay in misshapen lumps on the deck of the ship, dotted by sweat droplets and one intense round of vomiting from Ivan's own stomach. It wasn't great television, watching one classmate yank twisted black balls from another's body, but some supercuts featured it for the unlikely duo angle, the MLM fanfic angle.
His hands had only really stilled twice - both times when the speakers flared to life and Ritzy's nails on chalkboard voice filled the arena. The first pause was upon learning that James had killed Stokes - a little tidbit that made something, some part of him back in Miami, clench.
The second pause was when his name was attached to James. That same part from back home unfurled, relaxed, a warm feeling in the pit of Ivan's stomach. He hoped Fisk could hear it - hoped Ivan's name took up rent-free residence in scarface's head.
Ivan was wrapping gauze around Junji's wounds - clean, disenfected - but he felt it needed repeating.
"Should be in a sling, but you can't fight in a sling. You going after them?"
((Continued from Language is not Transparent))
In the background of the shot, Luanne Grasset stepped out from around the corner of a nearby boat, walking at a brisk pace. After a moment, she seemed to see at least one of the two boys atop the schooner. She then stopped for a second.
((She then reversed back around the corner and walked away very quickly.))
In the background of the shot, Luanne Grasset stepped out from around the corner of a nearby boat, walking at a brisk pace. After a moment, she seemed to see at least one of the two boys atop the schooner. She then stopped for a second.
((She then reversed back around the corner and walked away very quickly.))
Well, that sucked.
Junji had clamped on his tongue depressor as instructed and bore through the pain. It turned out that field surgery conducted by a high schooler was not a pleasant experience. Go figure. He thought he would black out at a few points, but apparently the pain didn’t get bad enough to knock him out. Sucks.
He struggled to sit up, struggled even more to move his arm, when the announcements came into effect. Despite the pain, he listened very closely. He had to know the details of these deaths in particular.
Of course Stokes was dead. He’d known that since he saw her bleeding out like a pig in the kitchen. He knew that would happen when he heard Fisk behind him. He believed it with all his heart as he pictured her suffering a horrible death at his hands over and over and over.
But it wasn’t Fisk who was responsible, or at least not directly. It was James Highchurch. Cool, didn’t know him that well beyond the fact that he was a dead man. He could kill him and Fisk together. Romantic fucking agony torture. Sweet.
...Except not, apparently, because he had already been taken care of. By the guy who had just stitched up his back and probably saved his life.
He looked at Ivan with a mixed expression, silently. He did not respond to the question immediately. Where a storm of ‘Fuck him up!’ would previously lead him to be reaching for his knife and gun, regardless of how much sense it made, there was only a quiet uncertainty. Yes, he had killed the guy who Junji was dead set on making suffer. But he had also killed the guy who had killed Stokes, and his arm wasn’t going to kill him just yet.
Fuck, this was hard.
“Hey, you killed James? Fucking killsteal, man.” he finally said, if only to vocalise his uncertainty. It didn’t sound hostile, or bitter, but only tired. He looked away. ‘Thanks’ was the word on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. That made him uncomfortable.
“Yeah, I’m going after them. They all have to fucking die.”
Junji had clamped on his tongue depressor as instructed and bore through the pain. It turned out that field surgery conducted by a high schooler was not a pleasant experience. Go figure. He thought he would black out at a few points, but apparently the pain didn’t get bad enough to knock him out. Sucks.
He struggled to sit up, struggled even more to move his arm, when the announcements came into effect. Despite the pain, he listened very closely. He had to know the details of these deaths in particular.
Of course Stokes was dead. He’d known that since he saw her bleeding out like a pig in the kitchen. He knew that would happen when he heard Fisk behind him. He believed it with all his heart as he pictured her suffering a horrible death at his hands over and over and over.
But it wasn’t Fisk who was responsible, or at least not directly. It was James Highchurch. Cool, didn’t know him that well beyond the fact that he was a dead man. He could kill him and Fisk together. Romantic fucking agony torture. Sweet.
...Except not, apparently, because he had already been taken care of. By the guy who had just stitched up his back and probably saved his life.
He looked at Ivan with a mixed expression, silently. He did not respond to the question immediately. Where a storm of ‘Fuck him up!’ would previously lead him to be reaching for his knife and gun, regardless of how much sense it made, there was only a quiet uncertainty. Yes, he had killed the guy who Junji was dead set on making suffer. But he had also killed the guy who had killed Stokes, and his arm wasn’t going to kill him just yet.
Fuck, this was hard.
“Hey, you killed James? Fucking killsteal, man.” he finally said, if only to vocalise his uncertainty. It didn’t sound hostile, or bitter, but only tired. He looked away. ‘Thanks’ was the word on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. That made him uncomfortable.
“Yeah, I’m going after them. They all have to fucking die.”
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The Honeless Beard
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Ivan bared his teeth at Junji when the larger boy called James a killsteal, eyes crinkling. What a moronic fucking concept. Junji clearly hadn't been paying attention to the crackling speakers.
Ivan sat back against the wall of the cabin, sliding down it and crossing his jean-clad legs. His dark skin was even darker from exposure to sunlight - he could feel the burn on his scalp and neck. The ache, like a constant friction on his skin, kept him from zoning out, passing out.
"It's been personal," Ivan said, as if the other boy didn't speak.
"Stepped on Giselle until she popped, hung Vasily from the rafters of a shitty schooner. Tried to break Keegan's neck, but necks are weird and tough."
He held up his hands, still purple from the bruises that Keegan's jaw had left behind.
"I killed Bacchia by stabbing her with a sword she was holding. Shot James in the back with Rhonda's gun. That leaves two left. Two, then one."
Ivan met Junji's eyes, briefly. He was aware that his volume was a little too low, a little too quiet.
"So it'd only be killstealing if someone had gotten to James first."
He then blinked - owlish, slow, as if fully comprehending what Junji said.
"How bout this. You see Fisk, you howl long and loud. I'll be there as fast as I can."
Ivan sat back against the wall of the cabin, sliding down it and crossing his jean-clad legs. His dark skin was even darker from exposure to sunlight - he could feel the burn on his scalp and neck. The ache, like a constant friction on his skin, kept him from zoning out, passing out.
"It's been personal," Ivan said, as if the other boy didn't speak.
"Stepped on Giselle until she popped, hung Vasily from the rafters of a shitty schooner. Tried to break Keegan's neck, but necks are weird and tough."
He held up his hands, still purple from the bruises that Keegan's jaw had left behind.
"I killed Bacchia by stabbing her with a sword she was holding. Shot James in the back with Rhonda's gun. That leaves two left. Two, then one."
Ivan met Junji's eyes, briefly. He was aware that his volume was a little too low, a little too quiet.
"So it'd only be killstealing if someone had gotten to James first."
He then blinked - owlish, slow, as if fully comprehending what Junji said.
"How bout this. You see Fisk, you howl long and loud. I'll be there as fast as I can."
Junji continued to avoid looking at Ivan as he reeled off his murder-resumé. Big fucking deal, you want a pat on the back? Junji didn’t care about how fucking metal Ivan could be, or whether his kills were any flashier than Junji’s own. Ivan’s grudge was just a pissy little hissy-fit compared to what Junji had going for him.
The thought that Ivan might’ve lost someone, or been hurt as badly as Junji, was not really something he was ready to consider.
Still, he didn’t feel like arguing. Not right now, or ever again maybe. James was dead, so he’d never get direct payback, but he could still kill Fisk. He would still kill Fisk, and anyone fucking moronic enough to wear their shirt over their head for him.
He considered Ivan’s offer though. If you get cornered, cry out for help like a little bitch baby. Papa Ivan will come with his big ol’ gun and save your fat ass. How flattering. Because of course he couldn’t finish Fisk off by himself.
“What, you don’t want to team up? Two people are better at fucking someone up than one. Double penetration; he’d probably like that.”
He finally returned Ivan’s look, staring him dead in the eye.
“No homo.”
The thought that Ivan might’ve lost someone, or been hurt as badly as Junji, was not really something he was ready to consider.
Still, he didn’t feel like arguing. Not right now, or ever again maybe. James was dead, so he’d never get direct payback, but he could still kill Fisk. He would still kill Fisk, and anyone fucking moronic enough to wear their shirt over their head for him.
He considered Ivan’s offer though. If you get cornered, cry out for help like a little bitch baby. Papa Ivan will come with his big ol’ gun and save your fat ass. How flattering. Because of course he couldn’t finish Fisk off by himself.
“What, you don’t want to team up? Two people are better at fucking someone up than one. Double penetration; he’d probably like that.”
He finally returned Ivan’s look, staring him dead in the eye.
“No homo.”
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The Honeless Beard
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Ivan wrinkled his nose.
"Not really," he said in response to the team-up idea, "I'm not super big on the two person storylines. Someone always gets a better edit. I'd rather push solo."
He stood, brushing off his jeans from imaginary dust, bending to the right to scoop his bag off of the floor and hoist it over his shoulder. Junji would heal okay, and if he heard a howl anytime in the near future he'd have an excellent idea of where Fisk was at the very least. He doubted anyone else would go braying at the moon anytime soon.
"There's a cot belowdeck," Ivan said, chucking his chin towards the small ladder disappearing amidst plastic and ceramic, "if you want to sleep in cover. Try not to sleep on your back."
Ivan began headed towards the jetties, pulling his bag and Rhonda's gun closer towards himself.
((Continued, and confessing.))
"Not really," he said in response to the team-up idea, "I'm not super big on the two person storylines. Someone always gets a better edit. I'd rather push solo."
He stood, brushing off his jeans from imaginary dust, bending to the right to scoop his bag off of the floor and hoist it over his shoulder. Junji would heal okay, and if he heard a howl anytime in the near future he'd have an excellent idea of where Fisk was at the very least. He doubted anyone else would go braying at the moon anytime soon.
"There's a cot belowdeck," Ivan said, chucking his chin towards the small ladder disappearing amidst plastic and ceramic, "if you want to sleep in cover. Try not to sleep on your back."
Ivan began headed towards the jetties, pulling his bag and Rhonda's gun closer towards himself.
((Continued, and confessing.))
Junji scoffed as Ivan blew him off. Fine, whatever. Two person storylines were gay anyway. Just because Ivan had probably saved his life and killed Stokes’ killer didn’t mean they were butt buddies now or anything.
He looked towards the ladder, feeling reminded suddenly of how damn tired he was. He didn’t have any supplies either, and his gut was starting to feel empty. But never mind that now, he wasn’t going to beg Ivan for more. He didn’t know if he’d even see him again, or what the situation would be like next time. This could have been his last chance to say anything to him.
He turned to say something to Ivan. It night have even been a thanks, something he never really said to anyone. But he had hesitated too long, and Ivan had already left before he had a chance to say it.
He frowned to himself as his arm twinged, and headed below deck.
((Junji Yamada continued in I Have to Return Some Videotapes))
He looked towards the ladder, feeling reminded suddenly of how damn tired he was. He didn’t have any supplies either, and his gut was starting to feel empty. But never mind that now, he wasn’t going to beg Ivan for more. He didn’t know if he’d even see him again, or what the situation would be like next time. This could have been his last chance to say anything to him.
He turned to say something to Ivan. It night have even been a thanks, something he never really said to anyone. But he had hesitated too long, and Ivan had already left before he had a chance to say it.
He frowned to himself as his arm twinged, and headed below deck.
((Junji Yamada continued in I Have to Return Some Videotapes))