(no subject)
[ Part 1]
The passenger scoffed with a sneer hardening his delicate face. "Such a conceited name, isn't it?"
Gunshots and metallic ricochet distracted the driver from the lack of an answer. Instinctively he ducked, as if the belated recoil would've done him any good were the shooter's aim any better.
"Please tell me you know how to use a gun," he pleaded to his passenger, unsnapping the straps that kept his pistol in place, snug against his thigh. With a glance at his wounded accomplice, shaking and huddled against the passenger door, he already knew the answer. He wished he had more time. Time to switch seats with his passenger, time to collect the stash of real guns from underneath his back seats, time to get this boy the help he needed...
"I've never..."
Another round of spit-fire gunshots and the passenger swallowed his reply, ducking his head further into his arms. This time, because he was listening for it, the driver knew something was wrong. The assault wasn't coming from behind him but ahead of him, and unless the marksman were that bad with an assault rifle, they were aiming for the car behind him.
"It's coming from over there."
Shaky, red-stained fingers pointed the driver's gaze ahead of them and to the right, where quick flashes of fire lit up the night. They blazed above the horizon, signifying the attackers had the advantage of higher ground. Without warning to his passenger, the driver swerved off the road and headed for the aggressors. He had no delusion that the fire was friendly, only a hunch they thought the Ravagers would produce better spoils than he did. A small hope that he could more easily escape the interlopers. Maybe he'd get lucky and find a chance to get away while they were busy killing each other.
"We're going to die," the boy groaned against the leather fabric, sounding weary and defeated. If he were any more hunched in his seat, he'd be in the fetal position underneath the dashboard. He'd abandoned his compress to cover his head between his legs, stretching his thigh taut and forsaking any good the towel may have done. It was a little consolation to the driver that his passenger was proof he wasn't the worst person in a crisis.
A close, heavy pop startled them both. The muscles in his chest tightened and he clung to the wheel, hyper-aware, waiting for his car to spin out of control and to be helpless to reign it back. The lean of the car behind him caught his eye, his mirror calming his fears that it was his own tire that had been shot out. The headlights of the GTX blinded him in their reflection, swerving to the right to restore his vision to a view of the driver's side door skidding and teetering towards him, threatening to flip.
At his passenger's scream, his attention returned to the windshield. "Watch out!"
Even if he would have had time to swerve away, the other vehicle was closing in too fast. A cliff side towered before them, illuminated by headlights. The fender of the GTX lodged itself under his rear bumper, throwing his sense of balance. The steering wheel slammed against his chest rendering him unable to move. He barely heard the shriek of the boy above his own shallow, wrecked gasps laboring to pull the oxygen back into his lungs.
Faces he hadn't seen in years obstructed his vision of the rock wall vaulting towards him. Voices he hadn't heard since he was a child quieted his frenzied inner dialogue. His Grandfather's voice beaming with pride when he, barely taller than the car itself, swapped out one engine for another. How good the grease felt between his fingers as he giggled and jumped up to smear it on his Grandfather's nose. That same voice, low but heated and carrying to his bedroom, venting at his wife about the military's abuse of authority. Grandma's voice, sweet and steady as ever, trying to calm her husband before that vein in his forehead finally popped. Now the side of an ice cream truck, the annoying choppy jingle struggling to be heard from its broken speakers. Rosa's pretty face examining him above the sun-faded stickers of desserts, her features set in anger but tinted with relief to see him.
Pain coursed through his veins as if his blood were made of it. It shredded the sensitive skin of his cheeks and throat. He felt his form penetrate the windshield, jagged spikes of glass clawing at his arms, ripping at his clothes and flesh as if to keep him inside the vehicle. Then he didn't feel anything at all.
> finish scene
> hate it
> feel horrible
> edit it for an hour
> still hate it
> feel worse
> go find a drink and a smoke
ugh being a perfectionist sucks
The passenger scoffed with a sneer hardening his delicate face. "Such a conceited name, isn't it?"
Gunshots and metallic ricochet distracted the driver from the lack of an answer. Instinctively he ducked, as if the belated recoil would've done him any good were the shooter's aim any better.
"Please tell me you know how to use a gun," he pleaded to his passenger, unsnapping the straps that kept his pistol in place, snug against his thigh. With a glance at his wounded accomplice, shaking and huddled against the passenger door, he already knew the answer. He wished he had more time. Time to switch seats with his passenger, time to collect the stash of real guns from underneath his back seats, time to get this boy the help he needed...
"I've never..."
Another round of spit-fire gunshots and the passenger swallowed his reply, ducking his head further into his arms. This time, because he was listening for it, the driver knew something was wrong. The assault wasn't coming from behind him but ahead of him, and unless the marksman were that bad with an assault rifle, they were aiming for the car behind him.
"It's coming from over there."
Shaky, red-stained fingers pointed the driver's gaze ahead of them and to the right, where quick flashes of fire lit up the night. They blazed above the horizon, signifying the attackers had the advantage of higher ground. Without warning to his passenger, the driver swerved off the road and headed for the aggressors. He had no delusion that the fire was friendly, only a hunch they thought the Ravagers would produce better spoils than he did. A small hope that he could more easily escape the interlopers. Maybe he'd get lucky and find a chance to get away while they were busy killing each other.
"We're going to die," the boy groaned against the leather fabric, sounding weary and defeated. If he were any more hunched in his seat, he'd be in the fetal position underneath the dashboard. He'd abandoned his compress to cover his head between his legs, stretching his thigh taut and forsaking any good the towel may have done. It was a little consolation to the driver that his passenger was proof he wasn't the worst person in a crisis.
A close, heavy pop startled them both. The muscles in his chest tightened and he clung to the wheel, hyper-aware, waiting for his car to spin out of control and to be helpless to reign it back. The lean of the car behind him caught his eye, his mirror calming his fears that it was his own tire that had been shot out. The headlights of the GTX blinded him in their reflection, swerving to the right to restore his vision to a view of the driver's side door skidding and teetering towards him, threatening to flip.
At his passenger's scream, his attention returned to the windshield. "Watch out!"
Even if he would have had time to swerve away, the other vehicle was closing in too fast. A cliff side towered before them, illuminated by headlights. The fender of the GTX lodged itself under his rear bumper, throwing his sense of balance. The steering wheel slammed against his chest rendering him unable to move. He barely heard the shriek of the boy above his own shallow, wrecked gasps laboring to pull the oxygen back into his lungs.
Faces he hadn't seen in years obstructed his vision of the rock wall vaulting towards him. Voices he hadn't heard since he was a child quieted his frenzied inner dialogue. His Grandfather's voice beaming with pride when he, barely taller than the car itself, swapped out one engine for another. How good the grease felt between his fingers as he giggled and jumped up to smear it on his Grandfather's nose. That same voice, low but heated and carrying to his bedroom, venting at his wife about the military's abuse of authority. Grandma's voice, sweet and steady as ever, trying to calm her husband before that vein in his forehead finally popped. Now the side of an ice cream truck, the annoying choppy jingle struggling to be heard from its broken speakers. Rosa's pretty face examining him above the sun-faded stickers of desserts, her features set in anger but tinted with relief to see him.
Pain coursed through his veins as if his blood were made of it. It shredded the sensitive skin of his cheeks and throat. He felt his form penetrate the windshield, jagged spikes of glass clawing at his arms, ripping at his clothes and flesh as if to keep him inside the vehicle. Then he didn't feel anything at all.
> finish scene
> hate it
> feel horrible
> edit it for an hour
> still hate it
> feel worse
> go find a drink and a smoke
ugh being a perfectionist sucks