Just when you think you're in control [closed/incomplete]
WHO: Hiruma and Max
WHAT: MOAR attempts to try to cheer Hiruma up. Give the man a break, he's never been emo before.
WHERE: The incomplete football field
WHEN: Uh either last night after this or tonight. Not sure, doesn't matter?
So Claire was back in action and Antubis stunk at making him feel better. That was okay, though. He had tried. It meant something, at least.
Hiruma was busying himself with setting up the floodlights that he'd hooked up to Rivelata's mysterious ambient energy (with the help of a local man he'd beat really badly at blackjack). They seemed to be workingt fine, casting a bright and unnatural glow over the trimmed field. That was all it was right now; a field with short grass surrounded by four huge floodlights. No lines, no goalposts, nothing else. He had the paint to do it, but not the will. Not tonight, anyway.
He looked up at the lights and the moths that the lights had already attracted.
He muttered to himself, "Jesus, some of these moths are as big as fucking birds."
And they were. He could almost hear their wingbeats.
But, of course, he wasn't sure if it was because the moths were loud, or because of his condition. He'd chalk it up to a little of both as he kneaded the wound on his right hand. It seemed agitated, and was throbbing rather acutely.
With lights like these, he'd be a target for anyone in the sky.
WHAT: MOAR attempts to try to cheer Hiruma up. Give the man a break, he's never been emo before.
WHERE: The incomplete football field
WHEN: Uh either last night after this or tonight. Not sure, doesn't matter?
So Claire was back in action and Antubis stunk at making him feel better. That was okay, though. He had tried. It meant something, at least.
Hiruma was busying himself with setting up the floodlights that he'd hooked up to Rivelata's mysterious ambient energy (with the help of a local man he'd beat really badly at blackjack). They seemed to be workingt fine, casting a bright and unnatural glow over the trimmed field. That was all it was right now; a field with short grass surrounded by four huge floodlights. No lines, no goalposts, nothing else. He had the paint to do it, but not the will. Not tonight, anyway.
He looked up at the lights and the moths that the lights had already attracted.
He muttered to himself, "Jesus, some of these moths are as big as fucking birds."
And they were. He could almost hear their wingbeats.
But, of course, he wasn't sure if it was because the moths were loud, or because of his condition. He'd chalk it up to a little of both as he kneaded the wound on his right hand. It seemed agitated, and was throbbing rather acutely.
With lights like these, he'd be a target for anyone in the sky.