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Post by Waddle on Jun 23, 2010 8:24:11 GMT -5
Ryan didn't know where he was. At all. He was completely lost. He thought he might be in that small town Noatak that the Tasmanian devil had told him about. He might be on the other side of the Earth for all he knew. He just knew he hadn't slept in the past six nights or days (something that wasn't unusual for him), he was almost out of cash, and he had rented an apartment for one night in this town. There, he had left his two guitars, his small backpack of luggage, and the amplifier. His gaze kept flicking around as he shouldered his way through the people. Even though they called out indignantly or turned to stare at him, he didn't look at them, or act like he realized they were there.
He was just a stranger in a black trench coat, hands stuffed into pockets (nobody knew they were clutching his two best friends, his two knives he had had since he was a kid), barefooted, with greasy, unkempt hair, an exhausted face and the look of someone wild. It was the only way to describe him. And he didn't care. The concept of 'himself' meant nothing to him, meaning his personal hygiene and other related things were very far below satisfactory. And he didn't care.
He paused as his light green gaze was brought to his own reflection in the glass of a store. He didn't see what was beyond. He just saw himself. Stepping closer, one hand rose unnoticed to lay itself against the glass as he stared at his face, mouth slightly ajar. He saw someone who he didn't know. He saw someone that was still walking on two legs, someone he wasn't in his mind. In his mind, he was an animal, a killer. He was nothing but the blood on his hands, on the knives, on the riffle he had fired so many times during the war. He was nothing, he never would be anything but the blood of those whose lives he had taken without flinching or regret. He was something twisted, twisted beyond recognition, and he was fine with that. He was who he was, and he couldn't change that. No one could.
Pushing himself away from the window, he turned and walked once more beside the mall. He would probably pace here all day. And all night. Unable to stop. Unable to sleep, to be awake. Everything was a copy, of a copy, of a copy. Nothing was real, nothing was a dream. He was caught somewhere between. He had been for so long. He had never known what it was like to be normal. Without three mental disorders. But he was fine with that, too. It was something he couldn't change. So why try and change it or let it control him if he couldn't do anything about it? He was who he was, and if these people had a problem with it, they should confront him. He felt like slipping a knife between someone's ribs. No, he didn't simply want it. He lusted for it.
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Post by Anty on Jun 23, 2010 9:42:13 GMT -5
Anthony walked down the wide sidewalk, his head down, eyes studying the ground, half of his face hidden from view by the collar of the leather jacket. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, one always fingering the trigger on his gun. It had become more than a tool. More than a weapon. It was part of him. It was him. Evan had sent him on the small task of buying a carton of milk. Evan was still on bed rest (ordered by Anthony). He was becoming quite the responsible adult. He had even gotten a job. As a bus driver. But now he was looking for milk. And somehow he had ended up here. He had never been here, at least by foot. He pulled out a lighter and a cigarette and lit up, his one hand still on his gun. He hadn't tried to quit smoking yet. Living as a normal adult was stressful. For him, anyways.
Someone or something rammed into him and set him off balance, knocking him into a trashcan, which led to him tripping over it and eventually sliding to the ground, his back against the glass wall of a building. He jumped to his feet and grabbed his gun out of his pocket. "Why don't you come back and fight me? You little piece of shit!" In an instant he had the gun cocked and aimed at the guy who had purposely shoved him over. Both of his hands were on the gun now. The cigarette hanging loosely between his lips. Something had stirred inside of him. Pure hate. He wanted to kill. No, he needed to kill. He studied the man who was at gunpoint. He was tall, thin and menacing.
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Post by Waddle on Jun 23, 2010 9:53:00 GMT -5
Ryan blinked as someone addressed him more forcefully than the others. He heard the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking as he stopped. He turned slowly, hands still in his pockets, but gripping the knives in sweaty hands. Just what he had been hoping for. Though, against a gun, he had little chance. Oh well. What did he have to live for? Fantasies about these things called Talismans? Dreams? He had no hopes, no faiths. He had nothing to keep him on this Earth. He had only come to try and seek out this war because it was a war. And war was the only thing he wouldn't be made fun of because of his sleepless nights, or he wouldn't be kicked out because he couldn't hold his attention in one place for more than a handful of minutes. It was the one place where he fit it. He didn't belong, though. He didn't belong anywhere.
"Shoot me, then," he said in a quiet voice, watching the slightly shorter man with the gun and a cigarette with emotionless eyes. "Shoot me. I have nothing to live for. Shoot me if you wish. I couldn't care less." He hardly noticed the nearby people rushing out of the way, but standing at a distance to watch. Almost wanting the man to pull the trigger, he waited. If the man didn't, Ryan would probably put his daggers in between the other's ribs. It wasn't a fair trade-off. But, nothing in the world was fair. Nothing had ever been fair to him. Why should he be fair?
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Post by Anty on Jun 23, 2010 10:21:36 GMT -5
Anthony stared at the man who had confronted him. He actually wouldn't mind if he killed him here and now. It would be an easy way out and Evan wouldn't blame himself. But he would much rather kill someone else. His gaze flickered around to the large crowd gathering around them. Young, old, fat, skinny, short, tall. All hungry for a blood bath. Right here. Right now. But Anthony didn't want them to have that satisfaction. His gaze rested on the figure who had dared start something with him. "Everyone get out. Now. Or I'll blow all of your heads off," he said calmly, still watching the man. He felt satisfaction as the crowd began to back away, muttering, not pleased.
Quinn saw a crowd gathering around. There was yelling, jeering. Hostility was in the air. But it wasn't coming from the crowd, but what they were standing around. She decided to join them, and quietly, unseen, she slipped through the crowd until she was at the front. Two men: one slim and powerful, the other short and full of hostility.
Anthony's gaze flickered to the young girl who was still standing there, "Stupid girl, did you hear what I said?"
Quinn eyed him, "Yes I heard you."
Anthony nodded, "I thought so," he spit out. Next thing he knew he had a bullet aimed at her head, perfectly aimed. It hit home.
The crowd screamed and scattered. They didn't want to be the next victim of this cruel game.
Now he looked back to the man. "You next." He cocked the gun and his finger was about to pull the trigger when something made him hesitate. Something deep inside of him stirred. The gun... the war...
"Man, you look like shit."
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Post by Waddle on Jun 23, 2010 10:44:05 GMT -5
He watched as the man blew the brains out of the girl. His only twinge of emotion was regret that he hadn't had a chance at a kill so far. Oh, he would have enjoyed it. But only with his knives. He wanted to be so close that he would feel the life blood pouring from the victim's body and watch their soul flicker in their eyes, and then die. Just like he had watched his father die. Killing was the only way he felt alive. Ever. And right then, he was feeling particularly in the mood for blood. He didn't move his head as his eyes shifted to watch the girl fall to the ground, then they flicked immediately back to the man. The shot had been swift, and Ryan had had no chance to sneak in and draw his knives on the gun-wielding stranger.
He thought he saw what might have been a flicker of... something... in the man's eyes. Pity? Remorse? Was he second guessing himself? No... They didn't seem right. It wasn't fear, Ryan thought. What would the stranger have to fear of some dark clothed punk who didn't even have a weapon visible. Recognition? No, Ryan had never seen the stranger before. The emotion was there and gone so quickly that if Ryan had blinked at that exact moment, he would have missed it. What was the man waiting for? He felt a muscle in his face twitch, on the corner of his eye, something they did when he hadn't been blinking. He blinked and the twitch vanished. "Got a slow finger... stranger?"
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Post by Anty on Jun 23, 2010 10:59:27 GMT -5
It was odd. Ryan... or at least he thought it was Ryan... he looked like Ryan, he acted like Ryan, he even talked like Ryan... showed absolutely no fear. No emotion, even. And he looked like he could collapse from exhaustion at any moment. Just like Ryan. An insomniac. Anthony lowered the gun a little. "Boom," he said mindlessly and let the gun drop to his side. "So you really don't remember me?" he asked, just a little shocked. Am I really that different? he thought, confused.
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Post by Waddle on Jun 23, 2010 11:11:30 GMT -5
Ryan stopped himself from flinching as the man said 'boom'. It was fake. He wasn't dead yet. Well, actually, he wasn't very sure that he was even alive. Nothing felt real. What was reality, anyway? The things you touched, loved, could see and hear, taste and smell? All those things were gone after you were dead. So was death the real reality? Or was it just.. the end? The kinds of questions that plagued him every night, every day, were become monotonous, repetitive, because he never found an answer. He could never understand. Some people believed in God, in Heaven and Hell. If Ryan believed anything like that, he knew he was going to Hell. But he didn't believe in anything like that. The only things he believed in were his knives and their ability to take a life. Take his own, if he wished it. But every time he tried, he couldn't drive one into his heart or brain or neck.
He let go a quiet chuckle. It was as humorless as his face. "Right now, I'd be having trouble remembering what my name is," he said, and realized he couldn't remember his last name. Not much of a shame. That name was a curse he wanted removed. He wasn't a Sean. He was just Ryan. An insomniac, ADD, OCD killer. Even as he thought about it, his gaze was caught by a bird taking flight off the roof of the mall. He watched it for a second, thinking how wonderful being able to fly might feel. It was one of the few things besides Talismans he ever dreamed about. Usually, he crash and died, though. They say that if you die in a dream, you die in real life. What an old wive's tale.
He looked down at the dead girl, and wondered briefly if she had had a family, people who loved her. If she had, it was too bad for them. She had stuck her nose where it didn't belong. And paid the price. Then, he looked back at the stranger with a gun. Trying to scan his face and scan his memory, he failed to pull up anything. The only face he could remember was that of his fathers. A face he was glad to never see in waking hours ever again. All other faces after that man's had become just a meaningless blur.
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Post by Anty on Jun 23, 2010 17:14:20 GMT -5
Anthony studied Ryan's face carefully. Amnesia? He shook his head, that was foolish. He knew Ryan well enough to know that he had ADD, was OCD, and was an insomniac, which must have been a pretty sorry life. He moved toward Ryan and placed an arm around Ryan. His other on was in his pocket now, always touching the gun. "Would you care for a half pint? I think there's a bar just around here... " he trailed off, his mind seemed to be going fuzzy around the edges. He stood there, his mind hanging open, gaping at nothing for at least half a minutes until he realized someone was standing beside him. "Yes, a bar. I would love to go, I'm fine with going by myself if you don't wanna join me. You're Ryan, remember? I'm Anthony, Anthony Sanderson your old friend from army? Ah, well it has been a long time, hasn't it... " he took his arm off of Ryan's shoulder and put it back into his pocket. After that, he began to walk in what he guessed was the general direction.
Scar walked down the busy sidewalk, his head hidden in the black hood of his jacket as if he was joined in a cult. He pulled the hood over his hood over his large hair and iPod onto shuffle. Music was his life now. In fact, he was planning on applying for a job in the local music store soon. Tomorrow, maybe. It really did depend on how drunk he got tonight and how much of a hangover he was going to have in the morning. You see, tonight he was planning on having a bit of fun: get drunk, get into a bar fight and get laid. To most it was probably sick, to him, it was just a regular type of night, though getting laid was the hard part. His face was now covered in scars from the numerous bar fights he had gotten into and there was a whole in his bottom lip where a tooth had bit through it and it hadn't had time to heal yet. And then, of course there was the fist on his bicep that now had a scar where the police officer had shot him four years ago. It just so happened that when Scar dared look up he saw past the reflection of himself a drum kit identical to the he used to own. Sick bastards... He was now approaching his destination. Some grill and bar restaurant chain. But it looked decent enough so he walked in and took a seat at the bar. He paused his iPod and stuffed it into his pants pocket. "I'll take your strongest whiskey," he told the bartender, his face impossible to read.
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Post by Waddle on Jun 23, 2010 17:49:51 GMT -5
Ryan tensed as the stranger stepped forward, expecting to feel blinding pain and then be dead, but he wasn't. The man only put his arm around Ryan in a friendly gesture. Ryan gulped. A bar? Sounded OK. He hadn't been to a bar in what felt like a long time. But when the man introduced himself as Anthony, Ryan blinked. "Anthony?" he breathed, more like a hiss of breath between his teeth than a word. Oh God, thank goodness. He remembered Anthony now. How could he forget? They had gotten drunk one night and had some fun with each other... He didn't care to think on that.
He walked alongside his friend, completely forgetting about the dead girl behind them. He was more relieved that anything to be in the company of his Army friend... Well, maybe not friend. Ryan had been stupid to get himself drunk and get laid by a man in the same night. Still, Anthony wasn't just going to walk away from him. He stumbled over his own feet once, regaining his balance without trying to grab anything to pull himself back up. He was unused to having someone walking beside him, and he almost forgot that Anthony was even there. They were at the bar before he knew it. He let Anthony lead the way in and they went to a table that was stomach height, without chairs. Ryan simply kept his hands in his pockets, head down and shoulders slumped, not caring who he walked into.
Ryan stopped at the table and rested his forearms on it, leaning his head down. He felt like he was about to go to sleep on his feet. Either that or pass out. Maybe die. He wasn't sure if he had ever felt like this before, but he knew he didn't like it. "So, what've you been doing?" he asked quietly, not caring about the answer.
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Post by Anty on Jun 23, 2010 18:28:45 GMT -5
Anthony leaned his weight against the table, one arms resting on the table. Such a simple question had challenged him, because, really, what had he been doing all this time? Attempting suicide, getting hangovers, helping his best friend overcome the allergic reaction to cocaine? None of the those sounded like the right answer. "Oh, you know... driving buses and... stuff... ?" he said slowly, taking the bottle from the bartender with a quick nod of the head. He knew it was a cop out answer, but did he really want this guy to know that? He took a refreshing chug from the bottle, "What brings you to Noatak?" he asked. You could easily feel the tension in the conversation, they both remembered that night they had a little too much fun.
Scar sat on the bar stool, his head in his arms and an empty whiskey glass in the other, his hood still pulled over his head. His foot was tapping to the beat of the song. He rose his eyes sullenly over the edge of his arm to see the bartender pouring more whiskey into his glass. "Thanks," he muttered, though he doubted the bartender heard him. His head rose from the crack of his arm and he took a sip of the fine drink, then set it back, sighing. The bartender moved towards him now. She set down the rag in her hand and leaned against the bar. "You alright? You look a little... rough," she said in a deep southern accent. "Any chances that your schedule is open later tonight?" he asked her simply. She chuckled and stood up straight, "Nice try, kid," she said as she walked away to a guy in a black trench coat. "Damn. Well, it was worth a try," he told himself.
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Post by Waddle on Jun 23, 2010 18:55:45 GMT -5
A reluctant answer, but Ryan didn't care. What could he tell Anthony about his dreams? Was it something he needed to keep quiet? No, probably not. The dreams were most likely just things his sleep-deprived brain thought of while in search of a desperate escape from his life. "Strange dreams," he said gruffly. "Something about shape-shifting.. Wait, you said I was in Noatak? Good, I guess I'm here then..." He was muttering more to himself than to Anthony. "A shape-shifting war or something, I dunno. Probably just in my head, but where else do I have to go to? I attacked the Drill Sergeant and got thrown in the slammer for thirty days, they told me I couldn't go back. So I've no where to go."
He lifted his head slightly and watched the barmaid approach. He glanced behind her and saw a boy leaned low over a drink, and thought that something about that boy was horribly familiar. Was is... Scar? The young man he had helped out, and become close friends with, about eight years back? He shook his head. Surely, no... His gaze was drawn back to the barmaid as she asked him what he'd like to drink. He mumbled beer, she nodded and walked away. Ryan looked around the room and his breath caught.
His father was staring back at him from another table. The man's face was red and blotchy; he was obviously drunk. He started toward Ryan, looking murderous. No, that was impossible. Ryan had killed that man. It couldn't be real! And yet, there he was. With a scream, Ryan staggered back, knocking the table over and fell to the ground, eyes wide with fear. People around him murmured but didn't pay him much mind. He was just a drunk, maybe getting into a fight, to them. He hadn't even though about pulling out his knives. For some reason, he was fourteen again, helpless as his father bore down upon him, ready to tear him to bits because Ryan had been smoking. Before he had gone to the hospital and had come home only to kill the man.
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Post by Anty on Jun 23, 2010 21:26:51 GMT -5
Anthony choked on his beer, spitting it up and spilling it down his front. He wiped his chin on his sleeve sloppily, still not sure if what he heard was correct. Ryan had a Talisman? Did everyone have a Talisman? It certainly didn't seem impossible. Almost everyone he knew had one. Maybe the whole city of Noatak had them. Maybe if you moved there you got one as a welcoming gift... He was rambling. "You... have a Talisman? I-I don't think it's in your head... It's happened to me before. I've never actually transformed though... " he trailed off again, wondering if it really was all in their heads.
Scar scowled, so she liked older men, does she? He studied the man in the trench coat, What does he have that I don't have? That sick lit- But wait... his gaze caught with the man in the trench coat's for a split second and he could have sworn it was Ryan. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him. No, it had to be Ryan, he was sure. Rage started to build in him, the one time he thought no one could abandon, he did. He slammed the glass onto the the table and it spilled over his hand, which made the rage burn more because the alcohol got into all the cuts and abrasions he had on his hands from many fights. He jumped out of his seat, sending the bar stool flying backwards. It was time for him to get some revenge.
He heard Ryan's breath catch, and he turned his gaze towards him, he wasn't sure what to expect, but why the hell was he sitting on the floor like that? "You alright?" His head spun around as heard footsteps approaching.
Ryan was going to die tonight, Scar decided. He didn't care how close they had been in the past. He had no past, he lived in the present and the future was his. He shoved people out of his path, muttering profanities at them. He deserved death. He had left him. He held his gun hidden from view in a pocket on the inside of his hoodie, hidden from view he shoved more people to the ground, laughing cruelly. "Ryan Sean... " he snarled. "It's been a long time." He moved the gun out of its hiding place, and pointed it at Ryan's forehead. "I thought you were my friend! I trusted you... You... you... abandoned me. Just like my parents! Except I loved you, I looked up to you... " Tears were streaming down his face, but they were filled with rage.
Anthony's hand was already reaching for his gun as soon as he saw the man. He was tall and scarred. A monster. He had his gun pointed at the man's heart. A perfect killing shot. "You cock that gun and you're dead," he said as calmly as if this had not been his kill, because, in fact, it was not.
Scar lowered his gun to the ground, shocked, but not ready to give in defeat. The man standing in front of him was hostile, deadly even. "Who's this, Ryan? You're new little friend?! Are you going to dump him just like you dumped me?!"
Anthony looked at Ryan, then to the stranger, then back at Ryan, but the gun was still pointed at the stranger, "Who is this?" he asked, the confusion apparent in his voice.
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Post by Waddle on Jun 23, 2010 21:49:19 GMT -5
Ryan stared at the illusion until a gun was stuck in his face and the boy he had noticed was standing in front of him. Hadn't he wondered if it was Scar? The boy's words told him yes. Oh hell... Ryan stared at the gun, unable to explain his reasons for leaving Scar. He had thought he was doing the right thing. He had known that the police were on his trail about the murder of his father. If they showed up, he didn't want Scar to get messed up with something Ryan had done. Or had that been a dream? Ryan's gaze flicked behind Scar, not seeing his father. Maybe he was hallucinating. He hadn't slept in a long time, it was possible. Anything was possible, and none of it came as a surprsise to Ryan anymore. Except the reappearance of someone he had hated with a wild passion.
He looked back at Scar, taking in the boy's face. He had gotten much older than the last time they had seen each other. And now the hate in his eyes made Ryan's heart go cold. Anyone could look at him like that and he wouldn't care. But not Scar. The boy had changed something in Ryan. Given him back the emotions he had lacked for so long. Love, friendship, trust... And you ruined it... He stood slowly, legs feeling like jelly. This was all happening too quickly. Hadn't Anthony said sometihng about having the same dreams as Ryan? It was too much to take in. His brain wasn't thinking right.
He stammered for a moment, looking up into Scar's face -the boy had grown much. He was now several inches taller than Ryan. "S-Scar, I-I, please hear me out. I-I thought leaving you was best. The cops, there were close, and I didn't want you to get hurt." His reasoning became more certain the more he spoke. He even became scornful. The boy was overreacting. "Calm yourself before you wind up dead," he snapped angrily. "Kill me if you want. That is, if you want Anthony to shoot you too. I'd hate for him to have to waste a bullet or two." A pang of regret for the words struck his gut, but it didn't show in his face or in his eyes. It was mainly his lack of sleep talking. Turning his back on Scar, he picked up the table and righted it again. His eye caught something in the back of the room. Just an old beer can. Why had that caught his eye? The ADD he decided.
"This has nothing to do with you, Anthony. He's just a boy I helped out for a year then left." He glanced back at Scar. "For good reasons. Joining the Army got the cops off my case." It sounded selfish, he knew. If Scar took it like that, so be it. Ryan didn't care anymore. He didn't care about anything, or anyone. That included Scar and Anthony. He would never be pulled down by emotions again. He had accomplished that quite well until Scar came along, then had gotten it back after he had left. He wasn't going to lost it again. No, it only got himself and others hurt. Things would be so much simpler if my bastard father had never met my mother.
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Post by Anty on Jun 23, 2010 22:48:42 GMT -5
Anthony looked back and forth between the two. Realizing that they might be okay by themselves and he really wasn't needed here. "You two talk this out, I'll be... over there," he said and was gone before anyone could question him, flirting with one of the waitresses and trying to get a free meal.
Scar glared at Ryan, anger boiling deep inside him, he felt like a monster. He wanted to break down and cry, and tell Ryan how happy he was to see him. He wanted to tell him how much he's missed him. But of course, he couldn't bring himself to do it. "You always were a selfish bitch, Ryan. Did you ever think that maybe I would miss you?" he said, and laughed a deep laugh. "I trusted you. Did you know that? But I'm a changed man now, I don't trust anyone, not even myself. How could I? Everyone I've ever known has left me, and just because you abandoned me because you thought it best, so the cops wouldn't find you, do you really think that matters? I used to believe in you. And now I don't believe in anything." I miss you! he wanted to scream, but he didn't want to give Ryan that satisfaction. "You sick bastard... " he said and turned his head away so he wouldn't see the tears running down his hallow face.
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Post by Waddle on Jun 23, 2010 23:05:29 GMT -5
The words hit Ryan's soul like bricks. But he couldn't flinch, couldn't apologize anymore. For one main reason only. He sounds exactly like me... He wanted more than anything to tell Scar it would be alright. He wanted to tell the boy to stop himself from feeling so alone before it got too far out of hand. Once the boy fell to far into that feeling, he would never get out. Ryan had let himself fall far. And he didn't even try to get out anymore. He was trapped, and he honestly didn't care anymore. But how could he tell the boy that? He didn't want to appear concerned. He didn't think he could. Only in his momentary complete shock at seeing his father, which he still wasn't sure was completely in his imagination or not, he had been outwardly sorry. But not now. His own emotions were alien to him.
"I am a sick bastard," he said, flatly. "Don't let yourself become me, Scar. It'll be the worst mistake of your life. You will fall and never be able to get out. You will look back on days when you had cared and wish they were back. Until you spend a long, long time like this. Then, you will be helpless. Don't let yourself stay a monster." He almost considered moving past Scar and leaving. People were staring. He glared at them. "Turn around, all of you," he ordered in an angry hiss. Reluctantly, they all looked away. Ryan turned back to Scar and moved closer to the boy, so their conversation wouldn't be overheard. He sneered. "I said I was sorry for leaving you. I thought you would have been stronger than to wallow in self-pity like a beast, until it twisted you into this." Like me... "I thought you would be the man I wasn't. I was wrong."
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