a shot in the dark — gunner. & zane. [argus]

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

He woke up to the smell of gunsmoke. 

But that was normal—fire enough guns and the residue clung to one’s fingertips, clothes, hair, never to be completely rinsed away. Gunner’s scent was indistinguishable from gunpowder's.

What was not normal, was the body sprawled across his four-poster bed, and the little snores that came from it. Moonlight played across the other’s bare skin and for a moment, he wondered if one of those moon spirits his grandmother told him about had fallen asleep here. But as Gunner’s eyes scrutinized the form further, he understood that wasn’t the case. This boy was as far from a spirit as one can be, far from holy and enchanting things. This boy was all district nine soot and the sharp taste of iron, all sharp edges that clashed with Gunner’s own.

This boy was supposed to have left hours ago.

He let out a sigh and gingerly pulled himself away from the bed, reaching for the trousers on the bedroom floor and tugging them on to not delight his neighbors with any nightly surprises. The need for a cigarette gnawed at his innards and dried his throat. Quickly, he became to scavenge as a wild animal would, clawing through cabinets and drawers. By some stroke of luck, Gunner found one that wasn’t severely crumpled or moisture-sodden.

But as he was bringing the amber flame of his lighter to the unlit tip, a new sound caught Gunner’s interest – a strange commotion. If he was drowsy a second ago, he no longer was now: eyes sharp, a hand already pressed to the gun strapped his belt-loop.

Drawing closer to the sleeping boy, Gunner elbowed his side. “Get up and get dressed,” he urged, peering through the window of the cramped apartment. Old scratches and soot hid most, but he could make out figures in the dark, an odd fever to the way they scurried down the road, vehement as if trying to escape from something.

More rackets sounded from a distance, then.

“Zane, tell me something about yourself.” Gunner whispered as he drew his pistol from its holster, the tatty leather grip warm and familiar against his calloused palm. “If I am going to die with you tonight, I at least want to know you a little more.”

[lance]

Zane Holbrook

The world was always out to get you. That's what I had learned from a young age when I'd made my home on the streets of Nine and found out just how much goddamned effort it took in simply staying alive. So the softer moments - the moments of warm skin and warm blankets and some goddamned peace and quiet - were heavily cherished when it came down to it.

Oh, I had no doubt that had the threads of fate been twisted a different way that Gunner would have been the name of my end instead of a sweet memory. That boy and I were two peas in a pod, two chaotic forces of nature who just so happened to find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time together, full of gunshots and smoke as the iron ash scent of fire and blood filled the air.

That'd been our first excursion. I made sure it wasn't our last.

Good memories followed by a good sleep - what more could a boy ask for in these warm summer nights? Not much, for even that was too much to ask for - had it been any other boy at any other time, the words of “Get up and get dressed,” might not have been received very well. But I've known that fucker long enough to learn his nuances in more ways than one - and the tone that he'd chosen was one I'd recognized only once before. Not now.

Blinking sleep out of my eyes, I stuff down the wave of indigence I'm so used to letting run rampant on all who cross me, be it with a fucked up face or a fucked up sleep schedule. My pants are easy to find and toss on, and as I fumble with a shirt that may or may not be mine, the sound of bodies from outside further enlightens me to the situation I had just emerged into.

Now was not the time to be lamenting of pleasant thoughts and pleasant actions now locked forever in the past. Now was the time for focus on the present.

“Zane, tell me something about yourself.” Gunner's voice is no more than a whisper, but the tone is a far cry from the sultriness of hours past. “If I am going to die with you tonight, I at least want to know you a little more.”

It's not easy for me to suppress the snort that wells up inside, but I manage. When you live a life like mine, true genuine thoughts, actions, and conversations are hard to come by. They suck, but in the same way a thing of disinfectant burns away the taint of infection from a fresh wound. Not fun, but necessary, and I find I like them more often than not in the aftermath.

"How serious are we talking here, now?" Though the amount of body space I leave between me and the other boy is practically non-existent as we watch and wait for whatever happens outside to happen, for once it's a matter of practicality instead of a matter of, well, I've made enough references already that you should get the idea. "Are we talking like 'Hey, what's your favorite food' serious, or some 'I've been through some deep and dark shit' sorta stuff, or 'How many fucks have I had before you' sorta shit?"

Even in serious moments, my snark is never far away. It's just a matter of how thick I lay it on, it seems. "Just want to get a feel of how doomed we're feeling on this fine evening, yanno?"

It's either a curse or a blessing that it's dark enough that my smirk is mostly hidden, I suppose. "Doesn't matter to me either way. 'Sides, you've already seen how versatile I can be."

Potentially minutes away from getting riddled with bullets and I'm still making sex jokes? What, is that supposed to be weird or something? Have you even met me?

'Sides, I don't know about you, but making light of something serious like this is usually a pretty good way to figure out how serious said thing is. And yanno, I just woke up like a minute and a half ago, so it'd be good to get a lay of the land.