I hate rough trips [Active/Open]
Characters: Xanxus, Medusa + Whomever
Content: Initial arrival to Manhattan. Xanxus is tired, pissed off and incredibly confused.
Location: Streets near Bellevue Hospital.
Time of day: Late-Morning.
Warnings: Language. Lots of language.
Dirty.
Of all things to pop into ones mind when the stirring of consciousness pops back into frame, perhaps more important questions would surface first. For Xanxus, questions came second and he came first. He felt dirty. The grime against his pants, the wall against his back. Whatever it was, wherever he was...it was dirty. It should have been something he was used to, he worked with assassins and there was blood on so many occasions. He'd tread through corpses, sending himself through countless supply of shirts and expensive suits. He only dry cleaned if there was any specific value, otherwise once it was too dirty he'd just throw it out. He wasn't that dirty in that moment, but that was contrary to how he felt.
The Varia boss stirred, straining to focus on another grimy brick wall. The bitter cold wafting across his face, lightly skimming on the unsightly smell that drifted down the narrow alleyway. The daze pounded through his head as it gave its last force over him before dying down.
This wasn't Italy, this wasn't Japan. He'd been here but not while it was like this, wherever it was. He'd find out soon enough but for now he had to get himself up, get himself going. Gloved fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, lasting out the final wave of nausea that he'd been battling ever since waking.
"Fuck," He cursed, not really sure if it had been in English or Italian. An open breath, drew more crisp air into his lungs, waking him a bit more as he pushed himself to his feet. Not even helping the sickened look on his face as he felt the dirt pick up with him. Needlessly he brushed his hands over his pants, jacket, back. Ridding it enough, he could feel he'd been sitting there for quite a while.
For once now, he turned to look into the street. Some poor desolate, abandoned street. Xanxus couldn't help but feel partially intrigued. Maybe for just a moment before he fell back to focusing on himself. Quickly he checked his pockets, the box was still there as was his cellphone. Flipping it open, sure that within a few minutes he was going to scream at one of his subordinates more than he had those lofty ten years ago.
Slowly his eyes widened to find no signal, not even the most expensive piece of technology he had invested in was drawing out a signal let alone any energy. Hastily he checked it over, the little boil of anger already consuming.
"Scopata, FUCK, FUCK!" He nearly fumbled with the object but caught it just enough to slam it against the ground. Tiny plastic pieces scattering into the street.
(Don't mind the length fff...Also, Scopata is Italian for fuck..)
Content: Initial arrival to Manhattan. Xanxus is tired, pissed off and incredibly confused.
Location: Streets near Bellevue Hospital.
Time of day: Late-Morning.
Warnings: Language. Lots of language.
Dirty.
Of all things to pop into ones mind when the stirring of consciousness pops back into frame, perhaps more important questions would surface first. For Xanxus, questions came second and he came first. He felt dirty. The grime against his pants, the wall against his back. Whatever it was, wherever he was...it was dirty. It should have been something he was used to, he worked with assassins and there was blood on so many occasions. He'd tread through corpses, sending himself through countless supply of shirts and expensive suits. He only dry cleaned if there was any specific value, otherwise once it was too dirty he'd just throw it out. He wasn't that dirty in that moment, but that was contrary to how he felt.
The Varia boss stirred, straining to focus on another grimy brick wall. The bitter cold wafting across his face, lightly skimming on the unsightly smell that drifted down the narrow alleyway. The daze pounded through his head as it gave its last force over him before dying down.
This wasn't Italy, this wasn't Japan. He'd been here but not while it was like this, wherever it was. He'd find out soon enough but for now he had to get himself up, get himself going. Gloved fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, lasting out the final wave of nausea that he'd been battling ever since waking.
"Fuck," He cursed, not really sure if it had been in English or Italian. An open breath, drew more crisp air into his lungs, waking him a bit more as he pushed himself to his feet. Not even helping the sickened look on his face as he felt the dirt pick up with him. Needlessly he brushed his hands over his pants, jacket, back. Ridding it enough, he could feel he'd been sitting there for quite a while.
For once now, he turned to look into the street. Some poor desolate, abandoned street. Xanxus couldn't help but feel partially intrigued. Maybe for just a moment before he fell back to focusing on himself. Quickly he checked his pockets, the box was still there as was his cellphone. Flipping it open, sure that within a few minutes he was going to scream at one of his subordinates more than he had those lofty ten years ago.
Slowly his eyes widened to find no signal, not even the most expensive piece of technology he had invested in was drawing out a signal let alone any energy. Hastily he checked it over, the little boil of anger already consuming.
"Scopata, FUCK, FUCK!" He nearly fumbled with the object but caught it just enough to slam it against the ground. Tiny plastic pieces scattering into the street.
(Don't mind the length fff...Also, Scopata is Italian for fuck..)