Jaws that bite and claws that catch [closed]

[smokeeasy]

Characters: Badou Nails (smokeeasy), Jonathan Crane (ornithophobia), and later Dave Nails (smokeyou_out).
Location: Red-light district, near the Bitch's Brew Bar.
Rating: R(?)
Time: August 6th, evening.
Description: Badou arranged to meet Dave and tell him that they're brothers, not to meet Scarecrow and have to relive the way he lost his brother to begin with.

Comments

[ornithophobia]

On the other hand, said roving burlap-hooded maniac knew exactly what he was out to do.

While a good amount of people had reacted exactly the way he wanted -- fear and hate, people came to hate what they feared most -- it was mildly troubling how many others still remained unconcerned. Either a plague of apathy had hit the city, or this wave of new arrivals didn't understand exactly what they were dealing with. In either case, it only meant that the Scarecrow still had plenty of work ahead of him.

Exhausted as he was after more than a week of this, he hardly noticed the aches and fatigue as he hunted for someone still stupid enough to be out at night-- in what was normally a shady part of town to begin with. He wasn't concerned about not being to find one, no, there was always someone who either didn't get the memo or ignored it. Lucky for both him and them: they were always the ones that needed a dose of fear the most

[smokeeasy]

Badou's head snapped round the moment he heard the voice, the words ominous enough even before he had a face to go with them. You didn't ask someone walking alone down a dark street where they were hurrying to unless your plan was to do something that disrupted them getting there.

Even before he caught sight of him, though, Badou already felt sure he knew who luck had brought him.

"Of all the side streets by all the bars in all the world, he had to walk into mine." He said it as much for his own benefit as for the man in the burlap hood: he wasn't scared. Or he wasn't scared yet. Or he was scared and just doing a damn good job covering it up. Yeah, he'd be having what was behind door number three.

On reflex--old reflex--his hands went to the back of his belt. The place where his guns would usually have been. Only of course they weren't there now. He didn't have his guns, he was the gun, only he couldn't shoot himself. (Ironic to think that Crane had once stubbed his toe on him as he lay at the foot of the Communal stairs unable

[ornithophobia]

"You're already afraid, excellent," Scarecrow replied right over Badou's attempt at small talk. If his guess was correct, it'd likely only unnerve the man further. If not, no harm done. "That just means there's less work for me."

The reflex action did not go unnoticed, however, and it was with an irritatingly self-satisfied tone that he added, "No one to... Throw you down a set of stairs now, it seems." An advancing step, correcting the space between them. No backing out of this -- he knew exactly what he wanted. "So what will it be now? Fight or flight?"

All signs pointed to flight, but should it happen, he had a feeling the man wouldn't get very far in the maze of back-alleys, especially not at night. And then again, the doctor was just one man who surely couldn't hold his own in a fight... He shrugged, palms out, as if daring Badou to even try.

[smokeeasy]

Yeah, well 'stand and fight' sounded all well and good, but Badou wasn't really the hand-to-hand combat type. Would've been different if he'd had his guns. This all would've been different then.

He took another step back and did something few in Death City would likely ever see him do voluntarily: he tossed his cigarette away, barely half smoked. It was time to get down to business after all.

"Great options there. I should come over and punch you so you can give me a nice up-close and personal face-full of that gas everyone's been talking about. Think I'll take my chances with distance." Besides, running for it had served him well in the past. It had damn well saved his ass.

He took another step backwards, gauging exactly where they each stood, and then another step, and then bang. He was off like shot, immediately darting to the left and down a narrow side street, surprisingly quick on his feet for a man whose lungs had to be like tar.