Fuck. PK. Makes sense, if he knows the badge number, and Mike knows that tone of voice anywhere. Fucking self-righteous, high and mighty. Maybe he'd used it himself, once.
He's almost tired enough and almost hurting enough to just let him do it. He's putting up only a token struggle when the man starts forcing his arms behind him. he's spent some time locked up. It's not that bad, if you know how to watch your back. And at least you get fed.
It's not bad if you don't lose your fucking mind.
And then above the fucking noise of the guy's voice he hears one word.
He's been called a lot of things in his time, most of them not particularly flattering. He's used to it. But this...
Fuck, no, he's not going to let a pissant cocksucker like this take him anywhere. He's not going to let him live if he can do anything about it. He's dropped his gun but he's far from unarmed, and as his hand swings past his waist he unsheathes his bowie knife and whips it back and to the side, stabbing blindly. It's in the direction of the prick's gut, and he's just hoping it lands there, so he can twist it, jerk it, make it as painful as possible before it's over.
At first, he doesn't even feel it. At first, it's just blind lashing by some dick half in handcuffs and the sudden, inexplicable blooming of something sticky and gloriously warm on his side. On Oublie, it's cold. It barely even bothers him, at first.
Then there's the pain. The slice and the fucking twist, and before he knows it he's on his knees, sharp points of light standing on the corners of his sight.
No, says a voice he doesn't hear so much as feel, Not yet.
He looks up at Mike Pinocchio from his knees on the ground, his side pulsing out blood with each heartbeat, and he spits. He doesn't make it far.
"Coward," he breaths, hand holding his side in, "Cripple. I'm fucking watching you."
He's stepping backwards, out of range of retaliation, at least until he knows how much damage he's done, and he almost steps on it. Thankfully the outside is rubbery and gives under his heel, and he lets up immediately, turning and snatching it out of the snow with barely disguised relief.
He pockets it. Needs cleaning. Might be broken. It's something he can deal with later.
Once this is taken care of.
"Watching me, huh." His mouth twists, scornful, and he steps closer with the knife held out and ready. "That's sweet." He reaches out, grips the man's hair and yanks, jerking his head back viciously. "Let's see how well you watch me with your eyeballs on your fucking cheekbones," he snarls, bringing the point of the knife dangerously close. He's so tempted, so tempted to take his time with this. Make it nasty.
"So who the fuck are you? Might as well tell me, dick. You're dead either way."
He doesn't care. But there might be others coming for him. This guy might be only a scout. And that, he does care about.
Hobbes laughs gruffly, right in his face. He forgot how to be afriad a long time ago, maybe even before this and the life he was living now. Death had ceased to having meaning. He'd lose what? A pulse? Take it. It wasn't worth much on it's own.
"Fuck you," Hobbes said. He'd bit the inside of his cheek in the scuffle and his teeth were laced with blood. "You've already killed me, asshole. You're already a murderer. You don't even know who she is. But you should be dead, mother fucker. Dead and buried for what you fucking did."
He lurched suddenly, still bleeding, and pulled a short, serrated knife from his boot. He lashed out gracelessly, trying to make contact with the guy's leg. The good one. He'd paid attention to his information - it had been expensive enough.
This, he sees coming, but it's just a fraction of a second after it would have really done him some good. He jerks his leg back but the pain and the confusion and the rage have made him slow, and he feels the blade slice through his pants and then the hot, white pain of his flesh being carved.
He yelps, a high, embarrassing sound, and his unhurt leg lands a sharp kick against the man's wrist. He sees the green glitter of the aurora in the blade as it goes flying, and then he's got the man's hair in his fist again, and when he jerks it it's hard enough that he feels some rip out in his hand.
"Don't give a shit," he snarls. "Not about you, not whoever the bitch you're talking about is, nothin'. You're already dead? You're still gonna fucking bleed."
He's got the knife against the fuck's throat and he's aching to slice, because to hell with making it slow, when he hears voices in the distance. Running feet. Shit. Maybe it's nothing. Or maybe they've been heard.
He's killed PK before. He doesn't much want to be caught with the body of one.
Snarling again, incoherent, he shoves the man hard towards the ground and steps away, back into the shadow of one of the buildings. He moves silent, makes the trip around, he can still get to the docks. It's dark. If he's lucky no one will notice that he's in such bad shape, and even if they did it probably wouldn't matter.
And the prick is in no shape to follow him.
"Be seein' you, dick," he mutters, at once hoping it's true and devoutly hoping it's not. He turns and limps off into the dark.
The pain in his scalp and his wrist meld into one, cohesive thing. It almost makes things clearer, condenses it down. The guy's blood is a smear on his hand and his gun is buried somewhere in the drifts around them. The only thing on him that's warm is the blood that's leaking out of him and fuck, that went deeper than he thought. He hears the curses and the taunts over the rushing in his own ears, the frantic way his heart is suddenly beating and the tired, aching weariness is almost all encompassing. He can almost hear her singing. Almost...
Tom closes his eyes. No, Tommy. Not yet.
He opens them in time to see Mike retreating, one last glimpse of his profile in a jaundiced, sodium streetlight and he's gone. Just like that. Gone. It's almost like the past two years have never happened, right back where he started in the shipyard, a stolen PK cruiser blasting out through the hold. Tom remembers this feeling, hopeless, alone, but sure and fucking certain as an orbit.
He closes his eyes briefly, swallowing over the knob in his throat. It's a long time before he stands.
He's almost tired enough and almost hurting enough to just let him do it. He's putting up only a token struggle when the man starts forcing his arms behind him. he's spent some time locked up. It's not that bad, if you know how to watch your back. And at least you get fed.
It's not bad if you don't lose your fucking mind.
And then above the fucking noise of the guy's voice he hears one word.
He's been called a lot of things in his time, most of them not particularly flattering. He's used to it. But this...
Fuck, no, he's not going to let a pissant cocksucker like this take him anywhere. He's not going to let him live if he can do anything about it. He's dropped his gun but he's far from unarmed, and as his hand swings past his waist he unsheathes his bowie knife and whips it back and to the side, stabbing blindly. It's in the direction of the prick's gut, and he's just hoping it lands there, so he can twist it, jerk it, make it as painful as possible before it's over.
And then find his fucking eye.
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Then there's the pain. The slice and the fucking twist, and before he knows it he's on his knees, sharp points of light standing on the corners of his sight.
No, says a voice he doesn't hear so much as feel, Not yet.
He looks up at Mike Pinocchio from his knees on the ground, his side pulsing out blood with each heartbeat, and he spits. He doesn't make it far.
"Coward," he breaths, hand holding his side in, "Cripple. I'm fucking watching you."
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He pockets it. Needs cleaning. Might be broken. It's something he can deal with later.
Once this is taken care of.
"Watching me, huh." His mouth twists, scornful, and he steps closer with the knife held out and ready. "That's sweet." He reaches out, grips the man's hair and yanks, jerking his head back viciously. "Let's see how well you watch me with your eyeballs on your fucking cheekbones," he snarls, bringing the point of the knife dangerously close. He's so tempted, so tempted to take his time with this. Make it nasty.
"So who the fuck are you? Might as well tell me, dick. You're dead either way."
He doesn't care. But there might be others coming for him. This guy might be only a scout. And that, he does care about.
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"Fuck you," Hobbes said. He'd bit the inside of his cheek in the scuffle and his teeth were laced with blood. "You've already killed me, asshole. You're already a murderer. You don't even know who she is. But you should be dead, mother fucker. Dead and buried for what you fucking did."
He lurched suddenly, still bleeding, and pulled a short, serrated knife from his boot. He lashed out gracelessly, trying to make contact with the guy's leg. The good one. He'd paid attention to his information - it had been expensive enough.
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He yelps, a high, embarrassing sound, and his unhurt leg lands a sharp kick against the man's wrist. He sees the green glitter of the aurora in the blade as it goes flying, and then he's got the man's hair in his fist again, and when he jerks it it's hard enough that he feels some rip out in his hand.
"Don't give a shit," he snarls. "Not about you, not whoever the bitch you're talking about is, nothin'. You're already dead? You're still gonna fucking bleed."
He's got the knife against the fuck's throat and he's aching to slice, because to hell with making it slow, when he hears voices in the distance. Running feet. Shit. Maybe it's nothing. Or maybe they've been heard.
He's killed PK before. He doesn't much want to be caught with the body of one.
Snarling again, incoherent, he shoves the man hard towards the ground and steps away, back into the shadow of one of the buildings. He moves silent, makes the trip around, he can still get to the docks. It's dark. If he's lucky no one will notice that he's in such bad shape, and even if they did it probably wouldn't matter.
And the prick is in no shape to follow him.
"Be seein' you, dick," he mutters, at once hoping it's true and devoutly hoping it's not. He turns and limps off into the dark.
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Tom closes his eyes. No, Tommy. Not yet.
He opens them in time to see Mike retreating, one last glimpse of his profile in a jaundiced, sodium streetlight and he's gone. Just like that. Gone. It's almost like the past two years have never happened, right back where he started in the shipyard, a stolen PK cruiser blasting out through the hold. Tom remembers this feeling, hopeless, alone, but sure and fucking certain as an orbit.
He closes his eyes briefly, swallowing over the knob in his throat. It's a long time before he stands.
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