Post by payne on Aug 30, 2012 2:09:32 GMT -5
Payne fired two more shots from his Colt Diamondback, bringing his ammo count to one. And not a single hit on his pursuers so far, which was basically expected, as he ran down badly-lit streets as fast as he could, firing back without looking. And as his heart pounded at full speed and screams in that foreign language filled the air, the artist could only think about how he had no idea exactly why that was happening, why he had various mobsters behind him, extremely well-armed and hell-bent on killing him. He had basically found himself in a house in that city, wherever it was – Payne suspected it was Italy – having apparently become the local crime’s number one enemy. That was clearly the work of Vorpal, but he couldn’t see the need for visiting another country and attacking its crime. Unless one of them wanted to be a hero, or, the more likely option, wanted to eliminate competition. Still, why Italy? And more importantly: he should’ve stopped that. Sometimes it proved too hard. But it couldn’t prove too hard, it was as simple as that. In fact, people’s lives depended on it. – [Self-chastising later, now it’s time to run.]
As he rounded a corner, one of their bullets passed straight through his left shoulder at a diagonal angle, dropping the artist in a flash of pain and blood. The wound would be gone in a few moments, but a lot more were on their way, and he didn’t really have a lot of means of protecting himself. Except for that curse. Payne fought to get up, pushing himself against the building and taking his legs off the bullets’ path, but he could already hear his pursuers closing in, and had no idea how many of them there were. It sounded like a lot and with his luck that was probably the case. – “I hate you. All of you.” – The artist whispered to them, even though he had no idea if they could hear him. Vorpal, that is, not the mobsters. Gathering his strength, he got up, pulling the Colt’s hammer back and wishing for something better, something that could save him. Payne then stepped out - his eyes briefly red as the gamble was taken - and pointed the gun at them. In the next second it wasn’t the Diamondback’s blued finish he was looking at anymore, but a cape, firmly grasped in his hand. A red cape. And the figure who owned it completely covered him.
“… Hell yes.” – He was more than safe now.
As he rounded a corner, one of their bullets passed straight through his left shoulder at a diagonal angle, dropping the artist in a flash of pain and blood. The wound would be gone in a few moments, but a lot more were on their way, and he didn’t really have a lot of means of protecting himself. Except for that curse. Payne fought to get up, pushing himself against the building and taking his legs off the bullets’ path, but he could already hear his pursuers closing in, and had no idea how many of them there were. It sounded like a lot and with his luck that was probably the case. – “I hate you. All of you.” – The artist whispered to them, even though he had no idea if they could hear him. Vorpal, that is, not the mobsters. Gathering his strength, he got up, pulling the Colt’s hammer back and wishing for something better, something that could save him. Payne then stepped out - his eyes briefly red as the gamble was taken - and pointed the gun at them. In the next second it wasn’t the Diamondback’s blued finish he was looking at anymore, but a cape, firmly grasped in his hand. A red cape. And the figure who owned it completely covered him.
“… Hell yes.” – He was more than safe now.