(no subject)
Characters: Gene Hunt [Open like the legs of some slag down by the docks]
Rating: R, because Gene can"t watch his fucking mouth
Time Period: Modern
Location: The Castle
Relative Date: A little bit after the other arrivals
Status: Open and in progress!
Gene surveyed his surroundings, thoroughly unimpressed. It sure as hell wasn't his city, that much was certain. He was out in the middle of the ruddy country - probably about to step in cow shit, with any luck, though there weren't any cows in sight. Take the law into your own hands? There wasn't anybody around to break the law - but now Gene was there to enforce it. He took a swig from his hipflask and started down the road to the castle, his boots crunching in the gravel. The Wild West this wasn't, but Gene Hunt was still the sheriff 'round these parts.
He pushed the doors of the castle open, striding in like it was a saloon. (It would've been nice if it had been; he could've used a top-off on his flask.) The place was posh enough - definitely a step above anything he had to deal with in Manchester. Gene was used to the worst parts of the city; they'd been his home since he was a lad. He knew them like he didn't know this...place. Frowning slightly, he groped for his fags in the pocket of his overcoat, pulling one out and lighting it. After a long drag, the ash fell to the floor, marring the white marble - and drawing Gene's attention to the bloodstains. They were dry, but if there was one thing Gene Hunt knew on sight, it was blood. Some poor sod'd bled copiously, it looked like - probably from puncture wounds, most likely with a severed artery.
Oh, yes. This was more like it. He took off his leather gloves and shoved them in his pocket. It was time for the Gene Genie to get to work.
Rating: R, because Gene can"t watch his fucking mouth
Time Period: Modern
Location: The Castle
Relative Date: A little bit after the other arrivals
Status: Open and in progress!
Gene surveyed his surroundings, thoroughly unimpressed. It sure as hell wasn't his city, that much was certain. He was out in the middle of the ruddy country - probably about to step in cow shit, with any luck, though there weren't any cows in sight. Take the law into your own hands? There wasn't anybody around to break the law - but now Gene was there to enforce it. He took a swig from his hipflask and started down the road to the castle, his boots crunching in the gravel. The Wild West this wasn't, but Gene Hunt was still the sheriff 'round these parts.
He pushed the doors of the castle open, striding in like it was a saloon. (It would've been nice if it had been; he could've used a top-off on his flask.) The place was posh enough - definitely a step above anything he had to deal with in Manchester. Gene was used to the worst parts of the city; they'd been his home since he was a lad. He knew them like he didn't know this...place. Frowning slightly, he groped for his fags in the pocket of his overcoat, pulling one out and lighting it. After a long drag, the ash fell to the floor, marring the white marble - and drawing Gene's attention to the bloodstains. They were dry, but if there was one thing Gene Hunt knew on sight, it was blood. Some poor sod'd bled copiously, it looked like - probably from puncture wounds, most likely with a severed artery.
Oh, yes. This was more like it. He took off his leather gloves and shoved them in his pocket. It was time for the Gene Genie to get to work.