homecoming | adroxis family
Aug 4, 2020 18:01:51 GMT -5
Post by rook on Aug 4, 2020 18:01:51 GMT -5
hal
You wait with bated breath in the darkness of your workshop as the steady footsteps of your client pace back-and-forth, just inches above your safe-haven. Someone you don't really know just gave you some mints to calm your nerves before you handed them the bespoke heavy-duty ballistic weapon, designed to punch holes through brick. It was hand painted by you, with expert craftsmanship and attention to detail, although you're not so much concerned with the job you've done on it's appearance so much as the potential of your creation. This was no vanity order.
Words are exchanged under a cloud of stale cigarette smoke and exchanged pleasantries, and not once can you hear a voice raised from the safety of your basement. Everything goes to plan. There's more chatter, rumours collected from each party, and then a parting of the ways - you follow the heavy footsteps over your head, out towards the side door where they exit, and then you're left in silence.
You think that maybe you've done a good job, but there's part of you that worries just what you've unleashed. Looking down at the black paint and oil spread wildly over your hands, you begin to ask yourself how many hours is it until a life is taken, and although it wasn't your finger on the trigger, you birthed that weapon into the world. So it's your fault, right?
The person who's name you don't know tells you technicalities that are beyond you, so you shake your head and follow him out of your basement and up into the kitchen of the abandoned house. Abandoned as in the previous tenants were forcibly removed so that one of the famous Adroxis prodigal sons could do his work in peace and isolation.
This kitchen stinks of rat poison and stale bread.
You take your split, and head back home to your family. They're proud of you. They think you're important, just like them. You belong there. With all the enthusiasm of a fish on hot tarmac you drag yourself across the streets of Nine and back to the place they call home, but you call a house, and slip inside unnoticed.
These are usually working hours for you, but for everyone else it's the dead of night. You prefer to keep your sleep-cycle as polar-opposite to everyone else as possible - less distractions that way. Less that could go wrong. As if working in a basement on the other side of the District wasn't enough distance between you and your siblings already.
The kitchen here is well stocked, with boxes upon boxes of sugary cereals crammed inside cupboards, and tins all placed neatly in rows. The fridge is full of emerald green bottles of beer and cans of exotic ales. There's more alcohol than food, you notice - half eaten meats and cheeses litter the top shelf, but other than that everything else is a liquid diet.
You're aware you're not alone, and instinctively your hand moves to your hip - just for the briefest of seconds, before your arm then drops. You don't want to blow off the head of one of your siblings, and you're damn sure if it is one of them, then half your brains would already be spread over the kitchen counter if they didn't know their brother better than to come in at this hour.
You think you'd rather take the bullet than the conversation that follows.