3rd Person Sample - Scorched
At this moment, there's nothing more Heine wants to do than shove his gun down Giovanni's throat and pull the trigger.
Repeatedly, if possible.
Heine slams his gun down on the table, breath coming hard and fast. Not that he needs it, no - it's rage that makes him breath so harshly, forcing air in and out of his lungs at a rate that can't be healthy.
"Fuck it," he growls, and turns away from the creaking table, which is still wobbling with the force of his movement. The second gun is tossed over his shoulder and lands with unerring accuracy on the wooden surface.
The man's gaze takes in the room quickly, with an ease born of too much practice and with a wariness that goes with the bloody bullet holes in his leather jacket. Heine thinks that this is too calm - too damn peaceful to be something that that bastard cooked up, but he makes one last sweep of the room before relaxing (if only slightly) and leaning slightly against the rickety table.
He remembers all too well that day he woke up with no memories, nothing in his mind but the feel of the cold metal ring around his neck. He feels the same fear every time he is in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by things he knows nothing of. It reminds him of that day - the day that was followed by too much carnage and the feeling of killing his only friend.
Heine's mouth twists into a frown. He knows that this cautiousness he has grown accustomed to feeling is a result of the time he spent Underground, and he doesn't like it.
As his thoughts drift towards that place, he involuntarily thinks of Badou. Badou had been in that place, hadn't he? His red-haired, nicotine-addicted partner with the mind of a two-year-old fixated on cigarettes. Heine's hand reaches back towards his guns, almost absent-mindedly. Every memory he has of Badou is accompanied by memories of gunfights, shootouts that ended with him full of holes that sealed up too quickly to be normal.
The albino man fingers the bandages wrapped tightly around his neck, hiding the collar that brands him as one of them, one of the dogs that Angelika Einsturzen created to, to put it tritely, take over the world.
But Nill doesn't care. Nill doesn't care that any cuts that land on his unhealthily pale skin disappear as soon as he feels them. She doesn't care that he hates being touched, that he hates being around anyone. Heine's expression smooths out again as he looks out the window, stiffening again as someone runs past, screaming. Nill can't scream, he thinks to himself. And the thought makes him forget the screams, so similar to his own cries as he held the remains of his 'sister' in his arms.
Heine shakes off those thoughts and picks up his guns again - one white, one black. As Badou says, he thinks, I am black and white. With this life and the life of a hell hound... He sets the guns back down, with two definitive clacks.
But which life is black? With a smile filled with a certain dark humor, Heine shakes his head and looks down at the two guns.
"I don't care," he says out loud, his low rough voice sounds close to a growl. "I don't care." He smiles, and there's a sign of the mad dog inside. "Whichever fucking life I choose, they'll always be there, so what's the use of choosing?" Heine's smile turns into a wide grin. "But I'll kill them. Either fucking way."
He turns his back on the table. His guns are back in his belt, and that's all the assurance he needs that he's alive. As long as he knows he's alive, Heine doesn't care.
Just as long as he's alive.
Repeatedly, if possible.
Heine slams his gun down on the table, breath coming hard and fast. Not that he needs it, no - it's rage that makes him breath so harshly, forcing air in and out of his lungs at a rate that can't be healthy.
"Fuck it," he growls, and turns away from the creaking table, which is still wobbling with the force of his movement. The second gun is tossed over his shoulder and lands with unerring accuracy on the wooden surface.
The man's gaze takes in the room quickly, with an ease born of too much practice and with a wariness that goes with the bloody bullet holes in his leather jacket. Heine thinks that this is too calm - too damn peaceful to be something that that bastard cooked up, but he makes one last sweep of the room before relaxing (if only slightly) and leaning slightly against the rickety table.
He remembers all too well that day he woke up with no memories, nothing in his mind but the feel of the cold metal ring around his neck. He feels the same fear every time he is in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by things he knows nothing of. It reminds him of that day - the day that was followed by too much carnage and the feeling of killing his only friend.
Heine's mouth twists into a frown. He knows that this cautiousness he has grown accustomed to feeling is a result of the time he spent Underground, and he doesn't like it.
As his thoughts drift towards that place, he involuntarily thinks of Badou. Badou had been in that place, hadn't he? His red-haired, nicotine-addicted partner with the mind of a two-year-old fixated on cigarettes. Heine's hand reaches back towards his guns, almost absent-mindedly. Every memory he has of Badou is accompanied by memories of gunfights, shootouts that ended with him full of holes that sealed up too quickly to be normal.
The albino man fingers the bandages wrapped tightly around his neck, hiding the collar that brands him as one of them, one of the dogs that Angelika Einsturzen created to, to put it tritely, take over the world.
But Nill doesn't care. Nill doesn't care that any cuts that land on his unhealthily pale skin disappear as soon as he feels them. She doesn't care that he hates being touched, that he hates being around anyone. Heine's expression smooths out again as he looks out the window, stiffening again as someone runs past, screaming. Nill can't scream, he thinks to himself. And the thought makes him forget the screams, so similar to his own cries as he held the remains of his 'sister' in his arms.
Heine shakes off those thoughts and picks up his guns again - one white, one black. As Badou says, he thinks, I am black and white. With this life and the life of a hell hound... He sets the guns back down, with two definitive clacks.
But which life is black? With a smile filled with a certain dark humor, Heine shakes his head and looks down at the two guns.
"I don't care," he says out loud, his low rough voice sounds close to a growl. "I don't care." He smiles, and there's a sign of the mad dog inside. "Whichever fucking life I choose, they'll always be there, so what's the use of choosing?" Heine's smile turns into a wide grin. "But I'll kill them. Either fucking way."
He turns his back on the table. His guns are back in his belt, and that's all the assurance he needs that he's alive. As long as he knows he's alive, Heine doesn't care.
Just as long as he's alive.