wewriteinhell Entry #28
The next part of the Spandam thing.
---
Spandam was in the town square, sampling a variety of gourmet cheeses, when the first gunshots rang out. He turned to look toward the sound, a toothpick held between his lips, and saw Marines--- -his- Marines-- streaming toward him in the bright sunlight.
He whirled around, face pale, sure that he would be confronted with the whole of CP9--- but there was no one there. He scrutinized the street and store fronts for a long moment before slowly turning back around... the Marines were still rushing in his direction, and a few of the snipers had taken up positions on roof tops looking down on the square.
Spandam wasn't stupid.
He ran.
----
Tilden called a halt to the search as the sun began to set, and the Marines gathered at the docks. A hush settled over the crowd of exhausted men, while their Captain collected his thoughts. He hadn't expected Spandam to catch wise so quickly, and no one had been prepared for his amazingly efficient escape. The man was so brutally incompetent in every other aspect of his life--- it really should have occured to them that the only way he'd made it to this age was through luck and a skill for disappearing when things turned rough.
In one way, it made Tilden's job much easier, since he'd have a chance to pass the buck down the chain of command, now that they could do away with the 'cloak and dagger' facade.
But it weighed on his conscience that a man with less scruples and more ambition might wind up with the assignment. A man who wouldn't be content to let a powerless renegade flee in the face of Absolute Justice, regardless of the fact that there was nothing he could do. Hell, he didn't even have any money, and what 'life skills' he had were hardly the kind that would support him in a normal lifestyle.
Tilden sighed and looked over his assembled troops.
"We'll rest for the night, and then in the morning... we search the island again. He can't have gone far..."
----
Spandam sat between two large crates, with his knees hugged to his chest, and -pouted-. He was aware that the expression wasn't really adequate for the emotion he was currently experiencing, but it was all he had the energy for. Between his fervor for catching CP9, his realization that -he- was the one being hunted, his run for freedom, and then, now, being cooped up on this god-awful train full of bad memories--- it just wore him out.
He leaned his forehead against his knees and sighed.
He had known. Deep down, he had known that it was too good to be true. You didn't just lose a dangerous bounty crew, blow up a government fortress, and trigger the disbandment of an elite fighting cartel, and then get a second chance. Not when you didn't have the most illustrous and pristine career to begin with...
And he had known that his father was acting strangely, all through his recuperation. He'd been friendly and almost... affectionate. If he hadn't been in such horrific pain, Spandam might have questioned it, but as it was, he'd been a little distracted.
Knowing didn't make it sting any less.
He turned his head to the side, so that his cheek rested against his knee, pushing his pouting lips even further out. He tried to think of a suitably solemn vow of revenge... but he was too tired. It would have to wait.
He fell asleep to the sound of metal paddles on wooden slats, and the slap of waves rocking the train. He dreamed of sour victory, and pain.
----
Lack of movement woke him and he stared around at the crowded baggage car in complete shock.
How had he gotten here? Why had he slept in his boots? Where was his teddy?
He shook his head and dragged his hand down the unbound side of his face. The events of the day before began to trickle in and he scowled. His legs crossed at the ankle and his knees drooped toward the floor as he hunched his shoulders higher and higher. Where there had been confusion and dismay the night before, now there was only rage.
Try and shoot -him-, would they? They were going to regret that choice... eventually.
His shoulders slumped again when he remembered that he had no resources, no contacts, no---
His stomach rumbled loudly and he clapped his hands to it.
No money.
Word Count: 730
---
Spandam was in the town square, sampling a variety of gourmet cheeses, when the first gunshots rang out. He turned to look toward the sound, a toothpick held between his lips, and saw Marines--- -his- Marines-- streaming toward him in the bright sunlight.
He whirled around, face pale, sure that he would be confronted with the whole of CP9--- but there was no one there. He scrutinized the street and store fronts for a long moment before slowly turning back around... the Marines were still rushing in his direction, and a few of the snipers had taken up positions on roof tops looking down on the square.
Spandam wasn't stupid.
He ran.
----
Tilden called a halt to the search as the sun began to set, and the Marines gathered at the docks. A hush settled over the crowd of exhausted men, while their Captain collected his thoughts. He hadn't expected Spandam to catch wise so quickly, and no one had been prepared for his amazingly efficient escape. The man was so brutally incompetent in every other aspect of his life--- it really should have occured to them that the only way he'd made it to this age was through luck and a skill for disappearing when things turned rough.
In one way, it made Tilden's job much easier, since he'd have a chance to pass the buck down the chain of command, now that they could do away with the 'cloak and dagger' facade.
But it weighed on his conscience that a man with less scruples and more ambition might wind up with the assignment. A man who wouldn't be content to let a powerless renegade flee in the face of Absolute Justice, regardless of the fact that there was nothing he could do. Hell, he didn't even have any money, and what 'life skills' he had were hardly the kind that would support him in a normal lifestyle.
Tilden sighed and looked over his assembled troops.
"We'll rest for the night, and then in the morning... we search the island again. He can't have gone far..."
----
Spandam sat between two large crates, with his knees hugged to his chest, and -pouted-. He was aware that the expression wasn't really adequate for the emotion he was currently experiencing, but it was all he had the energy for. Between his fervor for catching CP9, his realization that -he- was the one being hunted, his run for freedom, and then, now, being cooped up on this god-awful train full of bad memories--- it just wore him out.
He leaned his forehead against his knees and sighed.
He had known. Deep down, he had known that it was too good to be true. You didn't just lose a dangerous bounty crew, blow up a government fortress, and trigger the disbandment of an elite fighting cartel, and then get a second chance. Not when you didn't have the most illustrous and pristine career to begin with...
And he had known that his father was acting strangely, all through his recuperation. He'd been friendly and almost... affectionate. If he hadn't been in such horrific pain, Spandam might have questioned it, but as it was, he'd been a little distracted.
Knowing didn't make it sting any less.
He turned his head to the side, so that his cheek rested against his knee, pushing his pouting lips even further out. He tried to think of a suitably solemn vow of revenge... but he was too tired. It would have to wait.
He fell asleep to the sound of metal paddles on wooden slats, and the slap of waves rocking the train. He dreamed of sour victory, and pain.
----
Lack of movement woke him and he stared around at the crowded baggage car in complete shock.
How had he gotten here? Why had he slept in his boots? Where was his teddy?
He shook his head and dragged his hand down the unbound side of his face. The events of the day before began to trickle in and he scowled. His legs crossed at the ankle and his knees drooped toward the floor as he hunched his shoulders higher and higher. Where there had been confusion and dismay the night before, now there was only rage.
Try and shoot -him-, would they? They were going to regret that choice... eventually.
His shoulders slumped again when he remembered that he had no resources, no contacts, no---
His stomach rumbled loudly and he clapped his hands to it.
No money.
Word Count: 730