OPEN LOG
Characters: Grift (grinninggrifter) and OPEN
Date/Time: Saturday February 20th/Late afternoon
Location: Shooting range
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Grift has been feeling ill at ease lately. How to solve it? Shoot things! Anybody may join. ♥ A note to anybody wishing to join is that the first few paragraphs are thought-based tl;dr, and I invited you to skip them. XD
Grift had felt that he had gotten over the two memories he had received, but still felt as if something was off, something was simply... not right. There was an unease deep in his gut that would not fade with sex or drink; drink only reminded him of the images and he had not indulged in sins of the flesh, too sickeningly reminded of the man's flesh underneath jaws that were not his own. The first memory was his own, however, and he found it unsettling. It wasn't the fact that he committed grievous harm against another that he found the most upsetting, but the fact that he seemed perfectly happy doing so.
Not for the last time, he wondered what exactly what he had done in his past life. He was a sinner, he was sure, but had he killed? And how often? He was not a soldier, yet he dreamed of bombs. They were thoughts better restricted to the thinkers and schemers of the Sphere, which Grift certainly wasn't. He wanted to have a peaceful life, work at the bar, drink, shoot, thieve, gamble and fuck. Was that so hard? Compared to other atrocities, it seemed simple, and it would be if those damned memory crystals didn't keep on coming back to him, hinting of different things.
Of different purposes, he thought, none of which he was fulfilling. Grift was sure that he was missing something important, but what? There was... something he had to do. But he didn't want to risk his neck, and he certainly didn't want to tell anybody else about them, not the odd rate at which he healed, and not of certain powers that flared up out of nowhere occasionally. Then he'd be expected to do something with them, and that was the last thing he wanted. No, he decided, he'd stick with petty theft and parlour tricks. That was his place in life, and that was where he had to stay.
No, he needed something simple. And what was more simple than a gun? He had been sulking on his bed when it finally struck him - eureka! - and his sole gun slid wonderfully out of his drawer and rested within his hand. It was no gun like Chapel's, but it was simple, familiar. A smile spread slowly across his face as he contemplated the day ahead, and he began to walk to the shooting range, a whistle upon his lips and a hop in his step, bullets in his bag and a hat upon his head.
When he arrived, he shined his shoes with a handkerchief he had tucked into his pocket, and discarded his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, damning the lack of vehicles in the Sphere. Then he strung up a few of the dummies against the concrete wall with the roll of twine he had brought with him, stood a few meters away, and held up the gun.
Bang.
Grift whistled his contentment as he hit the dummy's hand. The gun's power was more intoxicating than any whiskey and it was reliable, unlike his own powers. How amazing they were! How amazing technology was! Who knew what else men would think of?
Bang!
The dummy's foot, this time. Stuffing sprayed across the ground. "Yeah," he muttered to himself. "C'mon..." He shot the gun once more, at the dummy's torso, which split the fabric as the figure sagged. "That's what I'm talking about!" He crowed.
And for the first time in a long time, in a bark that was completely genuine, Grift laughed in sheer pleasure. Yeah, this was the stuff, this was exactly what he needed. He was an uncomplicated man, and he would stay that way.
He was back.
Date/Time: Saturday February 20th/Late afternoon
Location: Shooting range
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Grift has been feeling ill at ease lately. How to solve it? Shoot things! Anybody may join. ♥ A note to anybody wishing to join is that the first few paragraphs are thought-based tl;dr, and I invited you to skip them. XD
Grift had felt that he had gotten over the two memories he had received, but still felt as if something was off, something was simply... not right. There was an unease deep in his gut that would not fade with sex or drink; drink only reminded him of the images and he had not indulged in sins of the flesh, too sickeningly reminded of the man's flesh underneath jaws that were not his own. The first memory was his own, however, and he found it unsettling. It wasn't the fact that he committed grievous harm against another that he found the most upsetting, but the fact that he seemed perfectly happy doing so.
Not for the last time, he wondered what exactly what he had done in his past life. He was a sinner, he was sure, but had he killed? And how often? He was not a soldier, yet he dreamed of bombs. They were thoughts better restricted to the thinkers and schemers of the Sphere, which Grift certainly wasn't. He wanted to have a peaceful life, work at the bar, drink, shoot, thieve, gamble and fuck. Was that so hard? Compared to other atrocities, it seemed simple, and it would be if those damned memory crystals didn't keep on coming back to him, hinting of different things.
Of different purposes, he thought, none of which he was fulfilling. Grift was sure that he was missing something important, but what? There was... something he had to do. But he didn't want to risk his neck, and he certainly didn't want to tell anybody else about them, not the odd rate at which he healed, and not of certain powers that flared up out of nowhere occasionally. Then he'd be expected to do something with them, and that was the last thing he wanted. No, he decided, he'd stick with petty theft and parlour tricks. That was his place in life, and that was where he had to stay.
No, he needed something simple. And what was more simple than a gun? He had been sulking on his bed when it finally struck him - eureka! - and his sole gun slid wonderfully out of his drawer and rested within his hand. It was no gun like Chapel's, but it was simple, familiar. A smile spread slowly across his face as he contemplated the day ahead, and he began to walk to the shooting range, a whistle upon his lips and a hop in his step, bullets in his bag and a hat upon his head.
When he arrived, he shined his shoes with a handkerchief he had tucked into his pocket, and discarded his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, damning the lack of vehicles in the Sphere. Then he strung up a few of the dummies against the concrete wall with the roll of twine he had brought with him, stood a few meters away, and held up the gun.
Bang.
Grift whistled his contentment as he hit the dummy's hand. The gun's power was more intoxicating than any whiskey and it was reliable, unlike his own powers. How amazing they were! How amazing technology was! Who knew what else men would think of?
Bang!
The dummy's foot, this time. Stuffing sprayed across the ground. "Yeah," he muttered to himself. "C'mon..." He shot the gun once more, at the dummy's torso, which split the fabric as the figure sagged. "That's what I'm talking about!" He crowed.
And for the first time in a long time, in a bark that was completely genuine, Grift laughed in sheer pleasure. Yeah, this was the stuff, this was exactly what he needed. He was an uncomplicated man, and he would stay that way.
He was back.