Some Den in the Dives | Late at Night
01 Intas 2720
How did it even all come to this? It was a single thought that gathered behind the steel mask of Gunner, the young brow creasing as it contemplated the question. They pulled back the hammer of Liberator; a cold familiar click caused a shiver to traverse their spine - satisfying almost. The kept the pistol raised and pointed at his forehead, a single point blank shot that would finish it all. Or at least bring this unfortunate and daunting chapter to a close of sorts. The Gentleman, with his wispy, panicking field trembled as he stared down the barrel back into the expressionless steel mask.
Urine, Gale could smell it and the defecation he left within his half laced breeches and the flaccid member that peaked out. They had overturned his office to find the firearm; ignoring the fact they had interrupted him mid-fucking some young slip of a thing. Too short for a human and far too red-headed with her almond eyes, but she felt empty. At least, that's what he babbled it to be - the fact this woman, probably a passive, had a bruise swelling on the side of her face and a busted lip, the fact that she screamed and cowered behind Gunner told another story. Not that it mattered then, Gunner was too focused on the Galdor trying to reclaim some level of dignity and failing at doing so.
He was drunk on something.
Gale did not give a damn.
She was asking for it.
Her clothing was ripped and pulled at. Her eyes were rimmed red.
Like hell she was.
Look at how she's dressed.
Pathetic.
His hooked nose was still bleeding, from where Gale had punched him, his hair a tangled mess from where Gunner's gloved hand had grasped it and smashed his head repeatedly into the desk. Glasses were smashed, a decanter of wine was pouring out over the floor, ledgers of his dealings were ripped off shelves detailing his trade deals - legal or illegal, Gale did not really care. They ripped the keys for the desk locks from his neck, smashed open draws to reveal their secret compartments. They paused briefly when they saw the mechanical designs of firearms on paper - they burned them all with a candle frame, dropping the remains onto a cigarette tray as they smouldered to ash. It was only as the room was finally turned over, doors hanging limply off hinges, that Gale found liberator. With their own sense of reverence, they lifted the firearm, ran a thumb along the barrel - seemed he fired it and then struggled with the reloading of it. He had taken the traditional method of shoving gunpowder down the barrel, but not once thought about unscrewing the rotating chamber.
As he stood, Gunner slammed a heavy boot down onto his back and pressed.
"You stay right there." Gunner told him in a firm, monotone voice.
They unscrewed Liberator's chamber, blew out the barrel with a strong puff through the mask grill and began the old and began the familiar practised movements of loading the wax paper cartridges into the chambers. The lack of this particular firearm stopped them in some of their development, how they would have taken pleasure in drawing out more of those metal cartridges for ease of reloading. The woman had retreated to the corner of the room, eyes wide as she watched every move the masked Gunner make. After all, a hooded, masked figure had suddenly slammed the door of this office open and interrupted whatever crimes this Galdor was making. He began spitting something between his teeth, Gunner kicked him in the head, he gave a splutter of noise muffled behind broken cartilage - whatever he actually said was beyond the gunsmith. The last of the paper cartridges were loaded, a thumb neatly smoothing down the back of the thin copper 'drums' before the main bolt shaft and chambers were slid back in position.
They hauled the Galdor back to his feet, slamming him against the desk. He managed to find his balance then, some middle-aged, hooked nose man who previously looked down his nose at Gale instead now cowering. Which neatly lead the situation into the now.
Gale pursed their lips; they were a little disappointed. They expected the Gentleman to at least have some form of backbone, some vigour and ability to manipulate them into something. Instead, now without his goons on his heel, he was nothing more than a snivelling mess who took advantage of the lesser races. He had a waxed moustache, the taste of something other than just wine was on his breath - brandyweed or some other brand of tobacco, it did not matter what exactly. Open shirt, nearing plump with greying chest hair. He definitely had a lot more bravado the last time, and during the brief fleeting moments of composure, he snatched before Gale got a swing in.
They tutted, the cold metal stopped their features from squinting. It was Clocks Eve. Outside the fireworks continued to sound, the whistle of noise before the boom of colour and light filling the night sky while cheers continued. Inhaling, Gunner let the long tense breath rattle from their lungs.
WEAK.
He gave a snivel.
"Please- I'll-"
This son of a bitch killed Lance.
Do it. He deserves it.
No one ever steals from Gunner.
Urine, Gale could smell it and the defecation he left within his half laced breeches and the flaccid member that peaked out. They had overturned his office to find the firearm; ignoring the fact they had interrupted him mid-fucking some young slip of a thing. Too short for a human and far too red-headed with her almond eyes, but she felt empty. At least, that's what he babbled it to be - the fact this woman, probably a passive, had a bruise swelling on the side of her face and a busted lip, the fact that she screamed and cowered behind Gunner told another story. Not that it mattered then, Gunner was too focused on the Galdor trying to reclaim some level of dignity and failing at doing so.
He was drunk on something.
Gale did not give a damn.
She was asking for it.
Her clothing was ripped and pulled at. Her eyes were rimmed red.
Like hell she was.
Look at how she's dressed.
Pathetic.
His hooked nose was still bleeding, from where Gale had punched him, his hair a tangled mess from where Gunner's gloved hand had grasped it and smashed his head repeatedly into the desk. Glasses were smashed, a decanter of wine was pouring out over the floor, ledgers of his dealings were ripped off shelves detailing his trade deals - legal or illegal, Gale did not really care. They ripped the keys for the desk locks from his neck, smashed open draws to reveal their secret compartments. They paused briefly when they saw the mechanical designs of firearms on paper - they burned them all with a candle frame, dropping the remains onto a cigarette tray as they smouldered to ash. It was only as the room was finally turned over, doors hanging limply off hinges, that Gale found liberator. With their own sense of reverence, they lifted the firearm, ran a thumb along the barrel - seemed he fired it and then struggled with the reloading of it. He had taken the traditional method of shoving gunpowder down the barrel, but not once thought about unscrewing the rotating chamber.
As he stood, Gunner slammed a heavy boot down onto his back and pressed.
"You stay right there." Gunner told him in a firm, monotone voice.
They unscrewed Liberator's chamber, blew out the barrel with a strong puff through the mask grill and began the old and began the familiar practised movements of loading the wax paper cartridges into the chambers. The lack of this particular firearm stopped them in some of their development, how they would have taken pleasure in drawing out more of those metal cartridges for ease of reloading. The woman had retreated to the corner of the room, eyes wide as she watched every move the masked Gunner make. After all, a hooded, masked figure had suddenly slammed the door of this office open and interrupted whatever crimes this Galdor was making. He began spitting something between his teeth, Gunner kicked him in the head, he gave a splutter of noise muffled behind broken cartilage - whatever he actually said was beyond the gunsmith. The last of the paper cartridges were loaded, a thumb neatly smoothing down the back of the thin copper 'drums' before the main bolt shaft and chambers were slid back in position.
They hauled the Galdor back to his feet, slamming him against the desk. He managed to find his balance then, some middle-aged, hooked nose man who previously looked down his nose at Gale instead now cowering. Which neatly lead the situation into the now.
Gale pursed their lips; they were a little disappointed. They expected the Gentleman to at least have some form of backbone, some vigour and ability to manipulate them into something. Instead, now without his goons on his heel, he was nothing more than a snivelling mess who took advantage of the lesser races. He had a waxed moustache, the taste of something other than just wine was on his breath - brandyweed or some other brand of tobacco, it did not matter what exactly. Open shirt, nearing plump with greying chest hair. He definitely had a lot more bravado the last time, and during the brief fleeting moments of composure, he snatched before Gale got a swing in.
They tutted, the cold metal stopped their features from squinting. It was Clocks Eve. Outside the fireworks continued to sound, the whistle of noise before the boom of colour and light filling the night sky while cheers continued. Inhaling, Gunner let the long tense breath rattle from their lungs.
WEAK.
He gave a snivel.
"Please- I'll-"
This son of a bitch killed Lance.
Do it. He deserves it.
No one ever steals from Gunner.
