rebooted!!

@bcrnblue @offcolord @demcnsinmymind

    Just leave him – he’s survived this long – Except, Lars knew what The Man was like. He knew how relentless he was – which was all the more reason for him to run and save his own skin. There was a high chance of him getting killed if he doubled back inside to try and help Murphy. Better one freak killed than two – right?     And yet, he didn’t move from his spot hiding in the hedges ; listening to the fight from the outside as he screwed his eyes shut. You can run – now’s your chance – he told himself. TRYING time and time again to move his legs so he could sprint off and never look back. But, he didn’t – and he wasn’t frozen out of fear. NO – he was good at running in fear; and he wasn’t doing that, either.

  He closes his eyes, cursing under his breath at himself and hitting a fist against the ground in frustration before he was drawing the gun that Murphy had given him out of his waistline. – he had never shot a gun before, it was just POINT AND SHOOT, right? Just like Call of Duty?    Thankfully, after the years holed up in that home, Lars knew the ins and outs – he knew there was a window that he had used to try and outrun the man busted in in the basement ; so he stayed in the cover of the hedges as he crept around the home, hauling himself into the window – or, trying. He snags his jeans on the broken glass, stuck for a few precious seconds as he jerks on his left leg until the glass rips denim and skin. He’s hissing under his breath as a line of blood blossoms at the point of injury, pulling himself more fully into the basement ; doubling over so that he could smear his finger over it with a deep frown. Albeit, the thud from upstairs pulls him out of his daze – wiping his hand on his jeans before holding the gun in both hands – shaking hands – Just like those cop shows, right?     He had seen it once on NCIS, creeping close to the wall in hopes that it somehow made him quieter than the middle of the stairs – skipping the he knew creaked before making it to the top ; where Murphy lay backed against the wall of the living room – The Man hovering over him like a vengeful God.    And there was a sneer of rage, hot and painful, in his throat as he remembers his mother before raising the gun and firing once — resisting the urge to close his eyes at the recoil, brains and blood in the aftermath against the wall. And, even with all that proof, Lars didn’t breath again until The Man hit the ground.    And, now, Lars was panting, holding the gun gingerly as if it was about to burn him –  “– fucking Christ, that would’ve sucked if I missed – never shot a gun before. Beginner’s luck?” 

    He does his best to stumble back, knowing it’s no use when he’s nearly unconscious with only the sheer, stubborn willpower of refusing to die in his mother’s house keeping him upright -- though, he’s not so sure he has much of a choice, at this point. He’s clutching his bleeding arm as his head throbs and causes his vision to spin, feeling his odds dwindle by the minute.

    Whatever -- the kid would maybe live. Live to starve or get eaten for another day. Or something. At least Murphy can say he sort-of tried as he prepares for whatever comes next, as The Man reaches for him --

    A gun shot and an explosion of flesh and something else jolts Murphy to attention, stumbling back against the table as he attempts to straighten himself out, groaning as he grips the wall for support once more. He didn’t think the kid knew how to even turn the safety off -- and for a moment, Murphy is dazed.

    “Yeah, it kinda would’ve!” he huffs. He looks down a the man, and back up at Lars. “You just killed this who’s made my life a massive shit-stain for the past two years in two seconds. Jesus.” One hand going to his head, Murphy gingerly nudges his body with his foot, patting him down for any weapons he could use -- and finding none.

    Murphy doesn’t really hate many people -- he doesn’t have the energy. He carries a significant displeasure for what could be classified as the human race as a whole, not really caring for any of its inhabitants more than he has too. But certain faces burn into the back of Murphy’s eyes in a haze of red -- certain people make him burn with a sick enough hatred to kill -- and the bald, broad-shouldered cybernetic thing only known as The Man is one of those people.

    He’s on the floor, vision blurred and fuzzy as the room rocks and spins around him -- the achingly familiar, dusty wooden floors he once ran across as a child. He could see the living room where his mother used to smoke from here as The Man’s footsteps thud across the floor.

    But The Man isn’t after him this time -- he’s after Lars.

    Murphy lurches to his feet, weakly kicking a chair in The Man’s direction as his balance falters slightly -- trying to distract him for long enough that the kid can put some distance between him and the house.

    “I’m flattered. Buy me a coffee while you’re at it.”

   ‘ I’m here for you ‘ is often paired with the convenient notion that he’s needed for something. For somebody’s agenda. For somebody’s use. He’d trusted in Roberta’s ability to protect him when she promised no harm would come to him -- all the while, understanding he’d mean nothing to her should the blood in his veins not be more valuable than diamonds.

    “Yeah, I am! Ding-dong, you cracked my deepest, darkest secret: I don’t like talking about my family. ‘Specially not the dead ones.”

    Murphy grips his cutlass tightly in one hand as he walks several paces ahead of Lars, lips pressed tightly together. He’s not in the mood for therapy -- he never would be in the mood. 

    “My mom -- Aunt Lucy -- died ages ago. Yes, I still think about her. I’m not exactly living up to whatever positive expectations she may have had for me at one point. But I’m forty-three years old and it doesn’t really matter to me that much anymore.”