[holo | Sanctuary] enter the snarkdragon... who will be doing less snarking and more wtfing
He'd been shot. This knowledge percolated dully in Paul Smecker's brain, along with an undercurrent of brilliant observation there, Agent Smecker. Other bits of knowledge-- awareness that at least one of the bullets had hit his lung, because there was no air, just that fiery agony and the distant whistling noise as air leaked out his heaving lungs-- awareness that he would pass out from that before he bled to death-- awareness that if he'd put some more thought of it he could have thought of better ways and places to die. More stylish. More impressive.
An alleyway, though. Fuck. And not so much as a rentboy in sight at that.
Only Il Duce walking away, a man with no concerns, no guilt, a man who never second-guessed himself on any action, never doubted.
The stab of bitter cynical envy was the last thing he consciously thought before everything went black.
...And then he woke up. The pain was gone... Il Duce was gone.. the alley was gone too. He gaped-- no other word for it-- at the round room he was lying belly down in.
Metal. Platform, he was on some sort of... looked like something out of a goddamn sci-fi latenight special. He remained sprawled, trying to process the total cognitive dissonance he was experiencing.
Hallucinating. Maybe? One of those near-death things? Except why his subconscious would chuck this shit at him he didn't know.
"Fuck," he said finally. "Fuck. Fuck. Those fucking boyos were right and there is a Hell."
There was something on his wrist, an unfamiliar weight; he glanced down, but at the moment it was one new assault on his already overtaxed brain. Alien. Like the room. Slowly, like a man in a dream, he started to get to his feet, not yet seeing the tablet on the platform by his feet.
An alleyway, though. Fuck. And not so much as a rentboy in sight at that.
Only Il Duce walking away, a man with no concerns, no guilt, a man who never second-guessed himself on any action, never doubted.
The stab of bitter cynical envy was the last thing he consciously thought before everything went black.
...And then he woke up. The pain was gone... Il Duce was gone.. the alley was gone too. He gaped-- no other word for it-- at the round room he was lying belly down in.
Metal. Platform, he was on some sort of... looked like something out of a goddamn sci-fi latenight special. He remained sprawled, trying to process the total cognitive dissonance he was experiencing.
Hallucinating. Maybe? One of those near-death things? Except why his subconscious would chuck this shit at him he didn't know.
"Fuck," he said finally. "Fuck. Fuck. Those fucking boyos were right and there is a Hell."
There was something on his wrist, an unfamiliar weight; he glanced down, but at the moment it was one new assault on his already overtaxed brain. Alien. Like the room. Slowly, like a man in a dream, he started to get to his feet, not yet seeing the tablet on the platform by his feet.