tampered | Log - Ongoing, Backdated

Log - Ongoing, Backdated

When; November 10th, early morning.
Rating; PG13 for violence and strong language; will most likely progress to an R.
Characters; ~~Mort Rainey~~ John Shooter

written_rancor and George Lass

reaping_havoc.
Summary; George discovers the truth, and Shooter just can't have that.
Log;

Shooter had no problem finding young Miss Lass; the fact that the two lived in the same building was remarkably good fortune. It was very nearly laughable, in fact, though the writer's face was cold and showed no hint of humor as he descended the stairwell leading to the appropriate floor. Stepping out into the hall, he walked with a single-minded purpose, giving a careful but brief glance at the apartment number of every door.

290, 292, 294, 296...

He gave her fair warning. She couldn't say that he hadn't.

298, 300, 302, 304...

And to think, things could have turned out so much more pleasantly if the girl would've just left Mr. Rainey's best interests to John. He knew the man better than anyone else, rest assured.

306, 308...

Hiding the stainless steel cooking knife taken from Mort's kitchen behind his back, he gave a polite knock on the door of apartment #310. Quickly, he moved to the side and pressed his back against the wall where he would be concealed from view once the door opened.

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It was early morning, and George was curled up, on the couch in the main room. Kept warm by the large pile of blankets, laundry, and Dwayne's kitten nestled somewhere in the folds of a comforter, she stared sleepily at the tv; not really watching it, in that half-asleep stage that is occasionally synonymous with a lack of concentration and a wavering attention span.

Daisy had kicked her out of her own room the night before. George, not wanting to bother to move into the next room just yet, had left her piles of assorted personal belongings where Daisy had dumped them, and instead spent the night on the couch. She'd move tomorrow.

Hearing the knock, George shook herself awake, grimacing and rubbing her eyes. Like some gargantuan water beast rising from the depths of the ocean, she slumped and slithered out from her coccoon of warmth and stumbled lazily towards the door, straightening up to peek out the peephole.

There was nobody there.

"Fuck me..." George muttered, turning to go back to bed.

He reached out and knocked again, still staying flattened against the wall.

Stopping in mid-step, George, now mildly annoyed and woken up, walked back to the door, looking again through the peephole. Someone was fucking with her, and she didn't like it.

There could be one of two people on the other side of the door, she surmised. One, it would be a friend, playing some stupid pointless joke, for no given reason. Two, it could be someone bad. Most likely the second option, considering at the rate Arion gathered enemies, but there was no way to be completely sure.

Beside the door, hooked to a wall, was a small fire extinguisher. Picking it up, George began unlocking the door, pulling open the handle and opening it wide, scowling out.

"Yeah? Who is it?"

That was all it took. Shooter sprang from his hiding place, throwing all of his--and Mort's--weight against the door in an effort to knock the reaper over. He brought the knife out, an argent shine cast over his grim, stern face.

Okay. Bad.

The door swung open and smacked George in the shoulder, hard, knocking her down to the floor. Wincing, not bothering to yet look at the attacker, she directed the nozzle of the extinguisher at the man coming through and pulled....to cover him with flame retardant CO2 suds.

Probably the least threatening weapon ever imagined, but it spared her a second or two to get to her feet and look at who had the nerve to burst into her apartment so early in the morning.

"...Morty?"

Shooter nearly dropped the knife as a spray of white foam splattered him from head to toe, certainly surprising him but nowhere near hurting. Smart girl.

He smiled, solemn and utterly mad. "Well, that's jus' fine, Miss Lass," He drawled in his rusty voice. "You can try. Won't do you no good, but you can try."

With that, he lunged at her.

Shit

No time to think, no time to come up with a better way of doing things but realizing very quickly that the last thing she wanted to do this morning was get stabbed, George held onto the extinguisher, now spent of its foam, and swung it at Shooter's head, aiming to crack it against his jaw.

Shooter barely had a chance to duck from the fire extinguisher's blow, grunting with adrenaline as he lashed out in retaliation by attempting to kick her legs out from under her.

Hitting the ground, George grimaced as her head smacked against the edge of a side table halfway down. Seeing Shooter coming towards her, she sat up, reaching for the extinguisher and attempting to point it rather threateningly at the man. The threat index level of this picture was not exactly what she'd had hoped.

"Stay the fuck away, Shooter. You're not scary. You're just some fucking asshole with a knife and a split personality."

She wasn't scared. She was too angry to be scared.

Somber, judgmental brown eyes stared directly at George and her extinguisher. This was just getting pathetic.

"I'm awful sorry 'bout this, Miss Lass," He replied as if he were going to sigh. "But I warned you. I can't jus' drop it an' forget. Something's got to be done."

With that, he plunged the knife into her leg.

George lurched forward, grinding her teeth against the sudden rush of pain. It hurt. Being undead didn't make knife wounds hurt any less.

Somewhere in the subconscious part of her head, she realized that Mort...Shooter was now within arm's reach. She was holding something heavy and made of metal. In other words, her arms were a hammer and at the end of them was severe head trauma.

She swung the extinguisher again, this time connecting with Shooter's cheek, just below his ear. And she was pissed.

Shooter fell back, feeling something crack in his jaw and a spray of blood spill from his mouth. The pain was so sudden and horrible that he wanted to scream with rage and beat something into a pulp. Preferably George's face.

"Fair is fair, Miss Lass," He panted as he got to his feet, blood trickling down his face and onto the floor. "And since you're jus' about hankerin' for more, guess I should jus' oblige an' give you what you want."

He promptly strode back to her with intent of grabbing the extinguisher.

George, sensing an opening, let Shooter drag the extinguisher away from her hands. While he was in the process of disarming her, she suddenly launched forward, aiming for his knees and knocking the man down. Not waiting for him to grab either weapon, she started pummeling the man with her fists; first the nose, recently healed after being broken, then indiscriminately about the face and neck, furious.

He fell to the ground, but before he could make a move to procure the extinguisher, he felt his nose snap and something warm, wet and coppery spill from the nostrils. The bitch had broken it again.

Shooter was in a rage and he had all intent of striking out at the girl and thrashing her until she ceased to be little more than a twitching pile of meat and bone, but

(thisisn'trightwhyamIhurtingwhat'shappening-)

something stirred. Rather, someone.

His upper lip, bloody and cut, curled and his mouth opened for an angry, enraged cry

(what'shappeningwhatisHAPPENINGMYGODWHATISHAPPENING-)

that quickly faded to a pained, horrified scream as Mort Rainey woke up.

George halted in mid punch, her fist still in the air, traces of Mort's blood on her knuckles. She stared back at the screaming man she was sitting on top of, eyes wide and panting.

"...Fuck." The first word to come to mind.

Slowly, she was coming back to the world outside that ball of anger she'd wrapped herself in by wailing on Shooter. She was dimly aware of the pain in her hand, the knife lodged in her leg, and the terrified, hurt man looking back at her. Mort was back.

"Fuck, Morty..." she breathed.

His nose and jaw were broken; that much he knew. He was also very numbly aware that this was not his apartment, but the kitchen knife sticking out of George's leg was his.

No, no, no, noooo...

This was like a bad nightmare. It was a nightmare. Had to be.

But the seething pain in his jaw was very real.

And the mask of blood over his lower face was still very wet.

Mort wanted to scream for all he was worth, to shout and yell and cry until his throat cracked and his lungs lost all air. The sheer terror and agony of the situation overcame all reason and sensation as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he fell unconscious.

She watched as the wave of mixed emotions of pain and terror crossed Mort's face before he passed out. Once she was sure he was down, George rolled off him tiredly, and set to prying the knife out of her shin, her pajama leg stained with blood. With a fierce yank and a soft cry, she managed to drag it out. Already, the pain was diminishing, as the wound began sealing itself up.

George turned to look back towards Mort, grimacing inwardly at the mess his face was in. She turned to glance towards the closed doors of the apartment: Arion would be waking up soon, Daisy too, but Dwayne wasn't likely to be up so early. She'd need at least one of them to drag Mort to the hospital to get checked out, his bones properly set for the second time in as many weeks.

The thought occured that the person who woke up next would either be Shooter or Mort, and George climbed to her feet, feeling tired all over again now that the rush of the moment had been lost. She stumbled towards the kitchen and returned with a ball of string, tying Mort's hands and then his feet, not wanting to take any chances.

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Log - Ongoing, Backdated

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