tampered | Log [ongoing]

When; Last month.
Rating; Anywhere from PG to R. Depends on your taste pov anyway.
Characters; Heine [

weisshaar] & Giovanni [

60_08]
Summary; Details their vacation from the City last month, when they went back home to "settle things." ~~shh cover up for hiatus.~~
Log;

Though outdated and painstaking to retell the exact reasons and exact setup for their journey back Home, there is a simple way to explain why Heine, known for his aggressive denail and stubborness, just finally gave in to all the nagging of his pinstripe "brother," Giovanni, and that is wanting to make him "shut the fuck up." Direct quote.

So, humbling himself, he followed suit as they--well, one of them anyway--bid a bon voyage to the City, but only for more or less a month's time, enough in his seasonless world of the Underground to let tensions precipitate momentarily (until someone else came to stir the shit up again).

Underneath it all, the red-eyed gunner wanted to take the bastard away from whom he loosely considered his "friends," but most especially from the angel girl. In fact, before he stepped through the rare City Exit (which was quite boring, actually), he glanced back, frowning, almost concerned for her well-being; but he huffed and turned away, deciding that his leaving was for the better despite the fact that he knew she'd get hurt either way.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Why yes, he was pathetic in an obsessive way. The clothes and attitude he carried were just a way to elevate his esteem, probably, always being the one to crave attention when the one who wanted it the least was cooed and coveted. The two were more alike than pickles and cucumbers (one was sour, obviously), but more opposite than fruits and vegetables (savory when seasoned with salt, pepper, and rage); neither would admit that although they knew it.

The back of Heine's neck tingled and stung, attempting to auto-rescusitate itself to life at the signal of another with a Spine, but Heine grabbed at it, teeth grit, and sought the culprit with keen, glowering pupils, dilated with the tunnel shadows. Up, down, left, right, around.... There. Scope locked; he directed dissonant and threatening thoughts at the man.

It was that peculiar balance of similarity and difference that made them fit so very well together, in Giovanni's mind.

And when they resonated, when they sent electric fires down the other's nerves with equal parts of hate and brewing blood-eyed glee...

Oh, the fun.

I would suppose you're doing your best to threaten, Haine? Synapses, conversation, never spoken out.

Their connection swerved, curled, twisted around their fellow train passengers, the occasional push and tug rattling down the vinetails of their system. Giovanni yanked.

And that really would do it - like a movie scene where the world bottomed out into a great darkness, Giovanni locked them together in that place called nothing, that niche in the mind that held peace and quiet and the occasional psychological horror to torment and make toast with.

Alone.

That's what matters. They're alone, now, here, even if on the outside they really weren't. Poeple can deal with it when they were dead.

"Set the stage, Haine. I'll place up the melody."

Puzzle pieces are shaped differently in order to connect and lock in. They were designed to fill in what the adjacent piece lacked, and that is the connection between Giovanni and Heine. The latter abhorred puzzles, so he either avoided them entirely or shot holes in them; one led to the other eventually. Sometimes he didn't waste his effort and took it straight to the trigger.

...STATION 5, please, disembark. We have reached STATION 5, please, dise--

Some times such as now.

Heine's psychotic system interpreted only one entity. In a black space, it was the only standing being, pure white and still (at the moment). It was a nifty feature, formulated along with the rest of his nifty features associated with the cursed spinal prosthetic, that made aiming as easy as breathing.

What happened to the bystanders? Well, they were still there, only they were washed-out static of no importance. Only disadvantage was that noise was more difficult to filter, since they were flooding out of the cabins in hordes, screaming, yelling, shouting 'til their heart stopped with a bullet in the chest.

Heine moved backwards, with the flow of panic, into a wider arena. Spectators were welcome, but they'd have to watch for the rain.

A step backward.

A step forward.

Dance.

As the people lurched around and away from them Giovanni lunged forth, hands going for the guns in their respective holsters, and in a split moment - half of a second, even - both guns were aimed forward, muzzles ready to howl with bullet-smoke.

And it did, with simple squeezes of the trigger; Giovanni's aim found true, stray bullets ricocheting and breaking window-glass.

This was one of the things he'd missed about the Underground. Something no city could ever replicate the feeling of. Something that, innately, as dictated by the spinal cord long-embedded into him like the metal ring around his neck, told him of home.

Home, where one could fire a gun so freely as though it were an extra limb.

"This isn't another breakdown of negotiations, now, is it, Haine?" Giovanni asked giddily, as he closed into the albino's form. "I'd hate for us to bring business into this.

Spin, slide, pivot behind a column. Discard all the used shells; jump out and bang bang bang. Sounded like the artillery was out; the air was on fire.

There was a pause. Hard breaths and stomping feat scratched the sick green walls, and the last few passengers exited at the thunk and shatter of objects, living or nonliving. It was a beatiful disaster all too common in that area. Alarms were of no use and justice was long buried.

Sweat trickled down his jaw. He loosened the jacket collar in a rough pull; then he laughed hoarsely, feeling his enemy's dangerous proximity.

"Some fucking business. We're the worst agents in history. Let's just finish this."

Metal punctured the ceiling. He was aiming for bringing it down.

The joy of freier frei, Giovanni thinks. One foot apart, twelve inches of distance, one single breath barely felt that keeps them from - and let me say it and humor our dead audience - biting range.

All it takes is a single motion to tip the balance to one side - never mind who falls first, who reaches out first, whose teeth come close and grip all bloody first.

"You make it sound like we're both undercover."

Giovanni moved.

Log [ongoing]

my brain is vegetating. forrealz.

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