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< WES > Old Brownstone Apts #210 - Rossi
An ancient, faded elegance sketches the boundaries of this apartment, hinted at in crown molding and worn, faded floors. High walls span to high ceilings, pale yellow with the barest of white trim; at one end, three high windows gape to let in day's light or night's dark with equal indifference. A small kitchen pocks a hollow in one wall, a doorless entry that offers glimpses of an metal-framed refrigerator and a cabinet-hung microwave. On the other side of the small living room, a short hallway offers entrances to bathroom and bedroom, both doors battered with the wear and tear of age.
In the living room are the basic accoutrements of comfort: sofas, chairs, table, television. Spartan accessories, betraying little of the owner; that task is left for the walls, hung with pictures of family and friends. Through them all runs the thread of blue, NYPD's uniform tailored to pride and vigor.
[Exits : [O]ut ]
It is black in the apartment, though street light filters into through the long slant of windows. A small room, spartan in its decoration; there are no street sounds at this hour to echo through its high, plaster round. 3:16 AM. The occupant is gone; the home is deserted, an empty shell.
The fire escape outside the apartment shudders slightly but remains relatively quiet as a dark figure slowly descends from the rooftop. 'Normal' attire has been traded out tonight for professional attire, and the figure is dressed in the ominous trappings of its business. A set of BDU's shroud the torso and legs, a bullet-proof vest snugly fit over the former. Cargo pants tuck into polished combat boots, a ski mask and gloves obscuring head and hands. Every item a hue of black, each purposefully concealing all but the irregular eyes. As a KBAR is retrieved from the belt, the moonlight illuminates the two Beretta's resting in the hip holsters and the hilt of a katana jutting over the mercenaries left shoulder. Click...shuffle...click. In mere moments, Deadpool pushes the window open lightly and slinks his way into the apartment; special care given to a pack slung over his right shoulder.
There is a military neatness to the living room's organization. Every item is in its place; every picture hung to geometric harmony. The band of light that stretches across the polished hardwood floor touches on the coffee table, dulling the edges of an open file folder: a case file, even its pictures bleached to black and white. On the stand by the front door, a leather holster hangs from a hook, emptied of its gun.
Unnatural eyes scan the room with solemn purpose, taking pause on the emptied holster. << Is he here? Does he know I'm in? Ambush?! Is that...Ikea? >> Idle thoughts are quickly purged from his head as Deadpool silently reaches his right hand over his shoulder and grasps the hilt. A snap sounds as a button on the sheath is unfastened and the blade is drawn. Wade's eyes pan the room warily as momentum sidles towards the bedroom.
That room is empty as well, desolate of the signs of life that make a home a lucid, breathing thing. Signs of habitation linger here, and the traces of the owner's departure. The bed is unmade, covers rumpled and overturned; across its foot, pajama bottoms -- pale plaid -- wait in empty patience for their master's return. Soon. Soon.
Very soon. Metal jingles outside the front door, scraping hollow against the wood. The lock rattles, fending off one key before accepting another. Daddy's home.
Attention immediately snaps towards the door before the mercenary skulks into the bedroom and brings his limbs close to his body in order to hide, tip of the blade raising as it rises near his face. The time is oh so near, Deadpool's eyes narrow with delight as he waits to do what he does best.
The door slams open, bumped by a foot and a tired elbow. A hand tosses the keys, jingling, to land on the table by the entrance. Clad in pale grey sweats, dark face still flushed from his jog, Chris Rossi pads into his apartment on quiet, sneakered feet. There is no need for lights, when memory makes a map of the room; arm scrubbing across the sweat-bright brow, the detective locks the door and wanders further in: bathroom first. For that room, a light. A few moments later, the sound of the shower hisses on.
Deadpool will have to wait. At least his target will be squeaky clean.
Mismatched orbs nearly glow with the agitation that exudes from them, but they soon regain the anxious glee that filled them moments before. Deadpool remains motionless as he patiently awaits his mark. Patience brings money, fame, and often more entertaining levels of violence.
The shower turns off. A few minutes later, the door cracks open, the spill of light flicking off.
The sound of footsteps is slow and tired, the near silent passage of bare feet given impact only by weight. Violence must, it seems, entertain a naked Rossi, modesty only given its concession by the fluffy white towel that wraps around his waist. Wan gold light traces the smooth skin and muscles underneath, dulling scars and bringing others out into stark relief: a bullet wound in the chest; larger striations across the back. A yawn pauses him by the bed; the towel drops away, to be replaced by the pajama bottoms.
Not /completely/ naked.
Phenomenal! Wade's left fist is flung hard into a straight punch aimed straight at Rossi's cheek, powered by the glorious releases of anxiousness, the tangible joy coursing through his veins, and the superhuman muscles tensing with the blow.
There is no warning; no preparation. Only the barest glimpse of movement at the corner of his eye turns Rossi in time to meet that oncoming punch: there is no chance to dodge, or to defend. Fist meets cheek full-on, rocking Chris back; he arches on a startled flare of eyes, flying into the obstacle of bed and wall with a slap of flesh and the bastard of a curse. "...the /fuck/--"
"Good evening, Rossi!" Deadpool enthusiastically announces as his blade flashes forward and comes to a rest aimed at the cop. An amused gaze travels up and down the less-than-decent man's form before Wade's right boot takes a heavy step forward and that gravelly voice perks up once more. "Do me a favor and get against the wall?! Hands above your head, legs apart...-please- tell me you know how this goes by now."
Tangled limbs recover, rearing Rossi up to swift physical response -- instinctive, the beginning surge of attack -- only to come up short against the jab of metal. Dazed eyes made colorless by night widen to show the rim of white around the iris; another curse spits out as Chris freezes, measuring that sword and its wielder with a furrowed brow. "You've got to be shitting me. A sword? A fucking /sword/? You're not one of Lensherr's monkeys. You have a cape?"
Jabbing the sword forward enough to get more attention, Deadpool's rasping chuckle rumbles out. "Shit! I knew I forgot something. Does it make you feel better knowing the guy about to cut your dumb ass in half for not doing what you were told is wearing a speedo?" The Lensherr remark is left unaddressed, probably for the better, as Deadpool clears his throat and offers another jab. "Wall."
Reluctance stiffens Rossi, a bloody-minded defiance that results in a trickle of more corporeal injury down his chest before he turns, straight-arming his lean into the wall. "I hear speedos mess up your boys," he lobs over his shoulder, Brooklyn's accent a hostile snarl in the deep voice. "You should chat with them, see if they remember how to swim downstream. So who sent you? Mangano? Scalfani?"
"That's why you're not a superhero, Rossi. Always worrying about your boys!" Wade says as he takes another step forward, right arm pressing the tip of the katana against the cop's back as the left reaches around and unzips a pocket on the pack, rifling around until it finds what he was looking for with a childish grin. << There you are! Oh...you're going to love your job, friends! >> "You lucked out today, I used up my last pair of latex gloves on the way here. No body cavity search tonight. Hands behind your back!"
"--Fucking /hate/ unexpected guests," Rossi grates, twitching away from the press of the sword before tipping his pale gaze back, eyes sharp and searching across the scarred curve of his arm. "You know my name. You're obviously not a random B and E. I'm figuring that means you've been watching me for a while, which means you know I'm a cop."
A pair of handcuffs clinks audibly as they're torn from the pack and the sword begins to break the skin. "New York's finest? Of course I know. That's why it's funnier this way. I was serious about the hands behind your back, by the way."
"You," the cop snarls, a thin stream of blood trickling down the skin, "are /off/ my Hanukkah card list. --Who sent you?"
The blade is forced in with considerably more pressure as he answers. "Rabbi Shut-the-fuck-up. That's who." A sigh escapes Deadpool as he muses aloud. "I didn't give you a condition, you don't know -why- you have to put your arms behind your back. I don't want to kill you, Rossi, I really don't. The easiest way to do that is to -not- kill you!" That same, rasping laugh escapes. "So I won't! If you don't put your arms behind your back, right now, I'm going to cut your penis off."
It is a telling threat. "Jesus Christ. The last person who said that to me was a hell of a lot prettier than you are. Had better boobs, too." The stiffened back expresses outraged fury with all the eloquence of that rough, ragged voice; in the line of throat, the pulse beats a swift and adrenaline-fueled staccato. Reluctant to the end, Rossi unlatches from the wall, bending his arms back to rigid compliance.
Compliance? That's exquisite! The Mercenary leans forward and quickly cuffs the detective, taking a step back and glancing towards the bed. "Make fun of my boobs again and you won't be getting laid tonight." He snorts out as he kicks out the back of Rossi's knees. "Allow me!"
Chris collapses with another muffled curse, head colliding with the wall at his drop. "/Fuck/." He has a varied repertoire, to be sure. "So you're not going to kill me. Color me ecstatic. What's the story here? You just have the hots for the NYPD? Let me guess. You're a fanboy."
The sword is sheathed in a fast motion and the knife quickly pulled out as he walks towards the bed. "I -knew- I was right when I thought you were smart. I didn't know how to get close enough..." Deadpool crouches down to cut and tear away a long strip of bed sheet. "...to get my bra signed."
Teeth bare, sharp-edged white against the shadow- and light-streaked face. "Bring those moobs on over here and hand me a pen," Rossi snaps, using a shoulder to push himself off of the wall. "I'll autograph your shit like you wouldn't believe."
"That's -so- wonderful!" Deadpool says with unrequited joy before following up in a more serious tone. "That means we won't have to kill them." Several strong, confident steps bring the mercenary right in front of the crumpled form of Rossi, knife placed back in a sheath before both hands raise the cloth to gag the captive.
The black head battles the gag, inevitably, wrathfully, twisting away with gritted teeth. A muscle jumps and tenses in the set jaw; pale eyes glitter at Deadpool in passing. From his kneeling position, Rossi lashes out at his captor's calf, bare heel driving at that supporting leg.
Wade grunts with the blow and stumbles onto his knee before whirling the back of his left fist at Rossi's face. "Son of a-" Laughter soon emits from him, he can't stay angry at that. Regardless of the reaction to the blow, the right hand immediately reaches for Rossi's neck in order to throw him onto his back.
Chris rocks at the blow, head snapping aside with a grunt. Blood glitters on his lip as he jags to retain balance, only to be overset entirely by that tossing hand. Shoulders hit floor; the head slams down with them. Once more those legs lash out, scissoring with his pushed roll in an attempt to bring Deadpool down with him. Rossi is Not Amused.
This time, though, Deadpool was ready. His lead leg lifts above Rossi's flailing limb and comes down with full force onto the side of the other knee, fully intent on breaking bones.
Deadpool is a crappy houseguest. He will not be invited back. Behind the gag, Rossi makes a strangled sound of pain, bones fracturing under that driving impact; his spine arcs, pushing him off the floor in a spasm of agony that draws the lines of his throat in stark relief against the skin.
No time is taken to relish in the first crack before Deadpool's leg lifts and comes down to crush the other knee.
The second leg does not prompt a cry, but a scream, cut off halfway by the tightened throat. Rossi rolls to his side, sweat a sheen across skin, shadow thick across the fragile hollow of his temple. The gag stops a breathless word: another curse, vengeful and easily interpreted, even without articulation. May a drunken shih-tzu gnaw off your testicles in your sleep. He is more eloquent in imagination.
Satisfied with the pain and bathing in the musical cries of agony, Deadpool's rolling laughter falls into an unusual giggle. "Brilliant, -brilliant!- YES!" Excitement trickles out of the merc like an avalanche gaining momentum as he returns to his pack and produces a pallid block of malleable substance and an electronic timer with a few wires dangling out of it. The c4 detonator is pressed into place, along with the wires, before a pair of smaller objects are retrieved. A large step is taken over Rossi as Deadpool irately taps out a few settings; placing it down directly in front of his face to ensure the red LED's reading '05:00' are plainly visible. The digits instantly fall to '04:59' and continue to descend by the second. "Ooohhh yeah! I haven't been able to use this shit yet!"
Recognition is a visible slap across Rossi's face, streaked as it is by sweat-soaked strands of hair. His head jerks back and away from that push of clock, agony pressing the lines and angles of the skull in bleak, mortal relief against the skin. Eyes glare. Who needs words? They are expressive enough. /Fucker/.
Being the fucker that he is, Deadpool is not yet finished! The first object is propped up next to the detonator, the faint light given off by the shifting numbers flicks across and illuminating it faintly. A picture of Leah; smiling and happy. The third object, a black rose, is tossed next to the picture while Deadpool makes his quiet escape out the bedroom and towards the window he entered.
Rossi is too distracted to appreciate the final touches, though the pale gaze sweeps across Leah's picture with a bare hitch for recognition. Even before Deadpool is out of the room, he is working his painful way across the floor, a caterpillar's wriggling progress punctuated by small, choked sounds for each rip of bone through flesh. The bedside table is a short yard away, an eon of travel; at its corner he convulses, knocking it over with a thrust of bound hands and shoulder.
Wade comes striding back into the room purposefully and lacking any stealth whatsoever. "-Shit!- I almost forgot!" The left hand raises one of the Beretta 92fs once holstered at his hip before lowering back at Rossi and firing it into his right upper arm. At the familiar sounding of the firearm, a smile streaks across his face. "No point being -shifty- any more!" He says calmly before running into the other room and kicking out the window. The mercenary rushes down the stairs a bit before jumping off entirely and running into a nearby alley. Deadpool's Ducati can be heard screaming into the night as he rides off into the night like a bat out of hell.
The body jerks, smashing wood; red darkens the bullethole, swiftly pooling under the arm. Rossi sprawls in agonized, soundless helplessness...
...and the timer counts methodically, remorselessly down.
[Log ends]
Deadpool, contracted by the Friends of Humanity to put a little fear of God into Rossi, creeps into his apartment to do a little damage. Cliffhanger!
< WES > Old Brownstone Apts #210 - Rossi
An ancient, faded elegance sketches the boundaries of this apartment, hinted at in crown molding and worn, faded floors. High walls span to high ceilings, pale yellow with the barest of white trim; at one end, three high windows gape to let in day's light or night's dark with equal indifference. A small kitchen pocks a hollow in one wall, a doorless entry that offers glimpses of an metal-framed refrigerator and a cabinet-hung microwave. On the other side of the small living room, a short hallway offers entrances to bathroom and bedroom, both doors battered with the wear and tear of age.
In the living room are the basic accoutrements of comfort: sofas, chairs, table, television. Spartan accessories, betraying little of the owner; that task is left for the walls, hung with pictures of family and friends. Through them all runs the thread of blue, NYPD's uniform tailored to pride and vigor.
[Exits : [O]ut ]
It is black in the apartment, though street light filters into through the long slant of windows. A small room, spartan in its decoration; there are no street sounds at this hour to echo through its high, plaster round. 3:16 AM. The occupant is gone; the home is deserted, an empty shell.
The fire escape outside the apartment shudders slightly but remains relatively quiet as a dark figure slowly descends from the rooftop. 'Normal' attire has been traded out tonight for professional attire, and the figure is dressed in the ominous trappings of its business. A set of BDU's shroud the torso and legs, a bullet-proof vest snugly fit over the former. Cargo pants tuck into polished combat boots, a ski mask and gloves obscuring head and hands. Every item a hue of black, each purposefully concealing all but the irregular eyes. As a KBAR is retrieved from the belt, the moonlight illuminates the two Beretta's resting in the hip holsters and the hilt of a katana jutting over the mercenaries left shoulder. Click...shuffle...click. In mere moments, Deadpool pushes the window open lightly and slinks his way into the apartment; special care given to a pack slung over his right shoulder.
There is a military neatness to the living room's organization. Every item is in its place; every picture hung to geometric harmony. The band of light that stretches across the polished hardwood floor touches on the coffee table, dulling the edges of an open file folder: a case file, even its pictures bleached to black and white. On the stand by the front door, a leather holster hangs from a hook, emptied of its gun.
Unnatural eyes scan the room with solemn purpose, taking pause on the emptied holster. << Is he here? Does he know I'm in? Ambush?! Is that...Ikea? >> Idle thoughts are quickly purged from his head as Deadpool silently reaches his right hand over his shoulder and grasps the hilt. A snap sounds as a button on the sheath is unfastened and the blade is drawn. Wade's eyes pan the room warily as momentum sidles towards the bedroom.
That room is empty as well, desolate of the signs of life that make a home a lucid, breathing thing. Signs of habitation linger here, and the traces of the owner's departure. The bed is unmade, covers rumpled and overturned; across its foot, pajama bottoms -- pale plaid -- wait in empty patience for their master's return. Soon. Soon.
Very soon. Metal jingles outside the front door, scraping hollow against the wood. The lock rattles, fending off one key before accepting another. Daddy's home.
Attention immediately snaps towards the door before the mercenary skulks into the bedroom and brings his limbs close to his body in order to hide, tip of the blade raising as it rises near his face. The time is oh so near, Deadpool's eyes narrow with delight as he waits to do what he does best.
The door slams open, bumped by a foot and a tired elbow. A hand tosses the keys, jingling, to land on the table by the entrance. Clad in pale grey sweats, dark face still flushed from his jog, Chris Rossi pads into his apartment on quiet, sneakered feet. There is no need for lights, when memory makes a map of the room; arm scrubbing across the sweat-bright brow, the detective locks the door and wanders further in: bathroom first. For that room, a light. A few moments later, the sound of the shower hisses on.
Deadpool will have to wait. At least his target will be squeaky clean.
Mismatched orbs nearly glow with the agitation that exudes from them, but they soon regain the anxious glee that filled them moments before. Deadpool remains motionless as he patiently awaits his mark. Patience brings money, fame, and often more entertaining levels of violence.
The shower turns off. A few minutes later, the door cracks open, the spill of light flicking off.
The sound of footsteps is slow and tired, the near silent passage of bare feet given impact only by weight. Violence must, it seems, entertain a naked Rossi, modesty only given its concession by the fluffy white towel that wraps around his waist. Wan gold light traces the smooth skin and muscles underneath, dulling scars and bringing others out into stark relief: a bullet wound in the chest; larger striations across the back. A yawn pauses him by the bed; the towel drops away, to be replaced by the pajama bottoms.
Not /completely/ naked.
Phenomenal! Wade's left fist is flung hard into a straight punch aimed straight at Rossi's cheek, powered by the glorious releases of anxiousness, the tangible joy coursing through his veins, and the superhuman muscles tensing with the blow.
There is no warning; no preparation. Only the barest glimpse of movement at the corner of his eye turns Rossi in time to meet that oncoming punch: there is no chance to dodge, or to defend. Fist meets cheek full-on, rocking Chris back; he arches on a startled flare of eyes, flying into the obstacle of bed and wall with a slap of flesh and the bastard of a curse. "...the /fuck/--"
"Good evening, Rossi!" Deadpool enthusiastically announces as his blade flashes forward and comes to a rest aimed at the cop. An amused gaze travels up and down the less-than-decent man's form before Wade's right boot takes a heavy step forward and that gravelly voice perks up once more. "Do me a favor and get against the wall?! Hands above your head, legs apart...-please- tell me you know how this goes by now."
Tangled limbs recover, rearing Rossi up to swift physical response -- instinctive, the beginning surge of attack -- only to come up short against the jab of metal. Dazed eyes made colorless by night widen to show the rim of white around the iris; another curse spits out as Chris freezes, measuring that sword and its wielder with a furrowed brow. "You've got to be shitting me. A sword? A fucking /sword/? You're not one of Lensherr's monkeys. You have a cape?"
Jabbing the sword forward enough to get more attention, Deadpool's rasping chuckle rumbles out. "Shit! I knew I forgot something. Does it make you feel better knowing the guy about to cut your dumb ass in half for not doing what you were told is wearing a speedo?" The Lensherr remark is left unaddressed, probably for the better, as Deadpool clears his throat and offers another jab. "Wall."
Reluctance stiffens Rossi, a bloody-minded defiance that results in a trickle of more corporeal injury down his chest before he turns, straight-arming his lean into the wall. "I hear speedos mess up your boys," he lobs over his shoulder, Brooklyn's accent a hostile snarl in the deep voice. "You should chat with them, see if they remember how to swim downstream. So who sent you? Mangano? Scalfani?"
"That's why you're not a superhero, Rossi. Always worrying about your boys!" Wade says as he takes another step forward, right arm pressing the tip of the katana against the cop's back as the left reaches around and unzips a pocket on the pack, rifling around until it finds what he was looking for with a childish grin. << There you are! Oh...you're going to love your job, friends! >> "You lucked out today, I used up my last pair of latex gloves on the way here. No body cavity search tonight. Hands behind your back!"
"--Fucking /hate/ unexpected guests," Rossi grates, twitching away from the press of the sword before tipping his pale gaze back, eyes sharp and searching across the scarred curve of his arm. "You know my name. You're obviously not a random B and E. I'm figuring that means you've been watching me for a while, which means you know I'm a cop."
A pair of handcuffs clinks audibly as they're torn from the pack and the sword begins to break the skin. "New York's finest? Of course I know. That's why it's funnier this way. I was serious about the hands behind your back, by the way."
"You," the cop snarls, a thin stream of blood trickling down the skin, "are /off/ my Hanukkah card list. --Who sent you?"
The blade is forced in with considerably more pressure as he answers. "Rabbi Shut-the-fuck-up. That's who." A sigh escapes Deadpool as he muses aloud. "I didn't give you a condition, you don't know -why- you have to put your arms behind your back. I don't want to kill you, Rossi, I really don't. The easiest way to do that is to -not- kill you!" That same, rasping laugh escapes. "So I won't! If you don't put your arms behind your back, right now, I'm going to cut your penis off."
It is a telling threat. "Jesus Christ. The last person who said that to me was a hell of a lot prettier than you are. Had better boobs, too." The stiffened back expresses outraged fury with all the eloquence of that rough, ragged voice; in the line of throat, the pulse beats a swift and adrenaline-fueled staccato. Reluctant to the end, Rossi unlatches from the wall, bending his arms back to rigid compliance.
Compliance? That's exquisite! The Mercenary leans forward and quickly cuffs the detective, taking a step back and glancing towards the bed. "Make fun of my boobs again and you won't be getting laid tonight." He snorts out as he kicks out the back of Rossi's knees. "Allow me!"
Chris collapses with another muffled curse, head colliding with the wall at his drop. "/Fuck/." He has a varied repertoire, to be sure. "So you're not going to kill me. Color me ecstatic. What's the story here? You just have the hots for the NYPD? Let me guess. You're a fanboy."
The sword is sheathed in a fast motion and the knife quickly pulled out as he walks towards the bed. "I -knew- I was right when I thought you were smart. I didn't know how to get close enough..." Deadpool crouches down to cut and tear away a long strip of bed sheet. "...to get my bra signed."
Teeth bare, sharp-edged white against the shadow- and light-streaked face. "Bring those moobs on over here and hand me a pen," Rossi snaps, using a shoulder to push himself off of the wall. "I'll autograph your shit like you wouldn't believe."
"That's -so- wonderful!" Deadpool says with unrequited joy before following up in a more serious tone. "That means we won't have to kill them." Several strong, confident steps bring the mercenary right in front of the crumpled form of Rossi, knife placed back in a sheath before both hands raise the cloth to gag the captive.
The black head battles the gag, inevitably, wrathfully, twisting away with gritted teeth. A muscle jumps and tenses in the set jaw; pale eyes glitter at Deadpool in passing. From his kneeling position, Rossi lashes out at his captor's calf, bare heel driving at that supporting leg.
Wade grunts with the blow and stumbles onto his knee before whirling the back of his left fist at Rossi's face. "Son of a-" Laughter soon emits from him, he can't stay angry at that. Regardless of the reaction to the blow, the right hand immediately reaches for Rossi's neck in order to throw him onto his back.
Chris rocks at the blow, head snapping aside with a grunt. Blood glitters on his lip as he jags to retain balance, only to be overset entirely by that tossing hand. Shoulders hit floor; the head slams down with them. Once more those legs lash out, scissoring with his pushed roll in an attempt to bring Deadpool down with him. Rossi is Not Amused.
This time, though, Deadpool was ready. His lead leg lifts above Rossi's flailing limb and comes down with full force onto the side of the other knee, fully intent on breaking bones.
Deadpool is a crappy houseguest. He will not be invited back. Behind the gag, Rossi makes a strangled sound of pain, bones fracturing under that driving impact; his spine arcs, pushing him off the floor in a spasm of agony that draws the lines of his throat in stark relief against the skin.
No time is taken to relish in the first crack before Deadpool's leg lifts and comes down to crush the other knee.
The second leg does not prompt a cry, but a scream, cut off halfway by the tightened throat. Rossi rolls to his side, sweat a sheen across skin, shadow thick across the fragile hollow of his temple. The gag stops a breathless word: another curse, vengeful and easily interpreted, even without articulation. May a drunken shih-tzu gnaw off your testicles in your sleep. He is more eloquent in imagination.
Satisfied with the pain and bathing in the musical cries of agony, Deadpool's rolling laughter falls into an unusual giggle. "Brilliant, -brilliant!- YES!" Excitement trickles out of the merc like an avalanche gaining momentum as he returns to his pack and produces a pallid block of malleable substance and an electronic timer with a few wires dangling out of it. The c4 detonator is pressed into place, along with the wires, before a pair of smaller objects are retrieved. A large step is taken over Rossi as Deadpool irately taps out a few settings; placing it down directly in front of his face to ensure the red LED's reading '05:00' are plainly visible. The digits instantly fall to '04:59' and continue to descend by the second. "Ooohhh yeah! I haven't been able to use this shit yet!"
Recognition is a visible slap across Rossi's face, streaked as it is by sweat-soaked strands of hair. His head jerks back and away from that push of clock, agony pressing the lines and angles of the skull in bleak, mortal relief against the skin. Eyes glare. Who needs words? They are expressive enough. /Fucker/.
Being the fucker that he is, Deadpool is not yet finished! The first object is propped up next to the detonator, the faint light given off by the shifting numbers flicks across and illuminating it faintly. A picture of Leah; smiling and happy. The third object, a black rose, is tossed next to the picture while Deadpool makes his quiet escape out the bedroom and towards the window he entered.
Rossi is too distracted to appreciate the final touches, though the pale gaze sweeps across Leah's picture with a bare hitch for recognition. Even before Deadpool is out of the room, he is working his painful way across the floor, a caterpillar's wriggling progress punctuated by small, choked sounds for each rip of bone through flesh. The bedside table is a short yard away, an eon of travel; at its corner he convulses, knocking it over with a thrust of bound hands and shoulder.
Wade comes striding back into the room purposefully and lacking any stealth whatsoever. "-Shit!- I almost forgot!" The left hand raises one of the Beretta 92fs once holstered at his hip before lowering back at Rossi and firing it into his right upper arm. At the familiar sounding of the firearm, a smile streaks across his face. "No point being -shifty- any more!" He says calmly before running into the other room and kicking out the window. The mercenary rushes down the stairs a bit before jumping off entirely and running into a nearby alley. Deadpool's Ducati can be heard screaming into the night as he rides off into the night like a bat out of hell.
The body jerks, smashing wood; red darkens the bullethole, swiftly pooling under the arm. Rossi sprawls in agonized, soundless helplessness...
...and the timer counts methodically, remorselessly down.
[Log ends]
Deadpool, contracted by the Friends of Humanity to put a little fear of God into Rossi, creeps into his apartment to do a little damage. Cliffhanger!