The beach was providing to be an interesting little hub of events, so that was where the Marquis had been spending a lot of his time. All sorts of human dramas played themselves out here - everyday conversations, arguments, people popping out of thin air with no idea how they'd got there, and, of course, strange men yelling their heads off.
The Marquis watched this particular one with something approaching amusement. He was sitting beneath a tree, playing a flute that looked as if it had been hand-carved out of bamboo, which is exactly what it was. He lowered it from his lips and called, pleasantly, 'Looking for someone?'
"Ferocious!" Clementine yelled back, once she saw the guy screaming at the jungle. She'd met him before, but couldn't remember his name for some reason. Although, a split second after she'd yelled at him, she realized that he was holding a gun, and yelling back at him probably hadn't been the best idea if she didn't want to get shot.
She unconsciously took a step back once the gun was pointed at her, but relaxed once she realized that she probably wasn't about to get shot.
"What, aren't we yelling adjectives?" She asked, "It seems like a pretty shitty way to pass the time, but I'm up for anything that'll break the fucking monotony around here."
"Stick around, the monotony'll get pretty broken," Spike says, keeping the Jericho moving, covering each gap in the trees in turn before dipping slightly to a waiting position by his waist. "Trust me, you'd rather it didn't."
Saffron raised an eyebrow as she came across Spike, holding a pretty impressive gun and yelling his head off. "Yes, sugar, you're very vicious," she said, her expression a bit incredulous. "I don't think you need to shout it to the jungle."
Spike gives her a short, hard look. "Not me," he snaps.
("You think I'm Vicious? You don't know what Vicious is!")
"You shouldn't be here," he adds, and it's anyone's guess whether he's watching out for her or just clearing the field so no one gets in the way. Cynical money is on the latter, with Spike.
Oh, just what he needs. Phrases involving the words 'can't live with them' come to mind, but buried under the other matters weighing on him, relating to the sword he's standing next to.
"Because you probably don't want to get yourself killed when the bullets start flying, that's why," Spike says, a little impatiently, suddenly aiming the Jericho at movement at the trees.
That turns out to be a monkey. What the hell is Vicious playing at?
The yelling is certainly enough to draw my attention, and Ulixes, turning in the same moment I do, bounds ahead, slipping silently through the underbrush until we come upon-
"Is that a descriptor or a challenge to the universe?" I ask Spike, lifting an eyebrow and pushing a few stray strands of hair away from my face.
The gun hops from Lara to the animal before sweeping the jungle once more.
"Neither," Spike says, all trace of that lazy, devil-may-care drawl erased from his voice; he sounds halfway to another person. "Both. You need to go."
"Why," I ask, one hand immediately on one H&K, glancing around, frowning. Ulixes looks... somewhat preoccupied. He dips his head then lifts it, and I see his whiskers flex. He swings his head back around to look at me and he seems supremely unconcerned.
I don't think he senses anyone else here. Or that anyone else has been here. I don't either.
"Because this doesn't have anything to do with you," Spike says, glancing down at the sword - definitely Vicious's sword, there's no doubt about that - lying on the sand.
Where the hell is he? Vicious likes making people squirm, sure, but you'd think he'd do it where he could see the results. If just imagining things had ever been enough for Vicious, the world would've been a different place.
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The Marquis watched this particular one with something approaching amusement. He was sitting beneath a tree, playing a flute that looked as if it had been hand-carved out of bamboo, which is exactly what it was. He lowered it from his lips and called, pleasantly, 'Looking for someone?'
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Spike draws down on him, Jericho level and steady. "Expecting someone, more like. Where is he?"
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'Who?' he asked, casually, easily, as if they were discussing the weather over a nice cup of coffee.
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Or, possibly, they're Spike. But Spike is Spike, so he doesn't know what this guy's deal is.
"Vicious. Where is he? He put that there himself, or are you his new errand boy?"
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What is wrong with her? "What is wrong with you?" he snaps, eyes still skimming the rest of the jungle for signs of Vicious.
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"What, aren't we yelling adjectives?" She asked, "It seems like a pretty shitty way to pass the time, but I'm up for anything that'll break the fucking monotony around here."
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("You think I'm Vicious? You don't know what Vicious is!")
"You shouldn't be here," he adds, and it's anyone's guess whether he's watching out for her or just clearing the field so no one gets in the way. Cynical money is on the latter, with Spike.
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"Because you probably don't want to get yourself killed when the bullets start flying, that's why," Spike says, a little impatiently, suddenly aiming the Jericho at movement at the trees.
That turns out to be a monkey. What the hell is Vicious playing at?
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"Is that a descriptor or a challenge to the universe?" I ask Spike, lifting an eyebrow and pushing a few stray strands of hair away from my face.
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"Neither," Spike says, all trace of that lazy, devil-may-care drawl erased from his voice; he sounds halfway to another person. "Both. You need to go."
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I don't think he senses anyone else here. Or that anyone else has been here. I don't either.
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Where the hell is he? Vicious likes making people squirm, sure, but you'd think he'd do it where he could see the results. If just imagining things had ever been enough for Vicious, the world would've been a different place.
Reply
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