#lady-mockingbird

The back alleys were safe, comforting in their welcoming shadows that eagerly opened their arms to envelop the running man. But they were cold an unforgiving too, snaking about with dead-ends left or right that could easily trap and corner a person.

His footsteps should have echoed loudly as he weaved through the corners. Any other human's footsteps would have. But this man was more of a ghost, a whisper on the cold breeze, than a man. He was a legend, a rumor, a person brought into existence only to flush out their prey. And he had done his job well, but all tools fail with time. And so had he.

Jason Bourne was the defective, multi-million dollar weapon.

There was no time to think about which way he would turn, he simply acted upon instinct. There were loud, frantic footsteps now; it was a different cadence than that of the fleeing man; his pursuer was growing closer now, no doubt the thrill of the hunt was burning through his veins. The pursuer was confident, too confident. And in the end, it would cost him dearly.

The fleeing man heard it before he saw it, he could feel the muffled, bassy thumping deep within his bones and it wasn't until he rounded another corner that the garish neon sign caught his eye. While a nightclub could be a great advantage for one such as him, with its large crowds to get lost it, it also had its disadvantages. At this moment, the cons outweighed the pros.

So when his pursuer sprinted around the corner, he sprang at him, catching the man in his midsection, driving him back only moments before his hands easily tangled the man's legs, sending him painfully crashing to the floor.

Yes, this hunter had made a grave mistake. He realized that now as he was forced to stare up into those cold, inhuman eyes of his target.

There was a dull crack as the back of his skull became acquainted with the brick walls, fogginess creeping around his vision as he felt his windpipe being crushed, slowly depriving his body of oxygen."P-please," he sputtered, fear flickering in his eyes as he watched the shifting expression of the man before him. But somehow his target's face remained blasé. 

Ω - How did you get into RP?

[ My lovely friend over here whined at me for ages to make a Balthazar RP blog.

crowley; can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like tormented souls screaming through the dark?

lady-mockingbird; u think ur funny but ur really hilarious lol c wat i did ther

[ Quite frequently, actually. A top few would be the-doctor-infinitum, lady-mockingbird, gonnariphislungsout, and of course, youhaveyourjobihavemine. (Those two are a package deal, and a fabulous one at that.)

 And can’t you just poof yourself places? I thought that was kind of your thing, Crowlster.

Crowley didn't even bother answering, pocketing his phone with a distasteful sigh as he looked around at his surroundings. Nurses bustled to their stations, the waiting room was filled with sniffling, downtrodden patients, and the receptionist looked frazzled as she tried to direct an elderly man back to his room.

He'd seen neater establishments.

He appeared outside of room 137 with bottles in hand, glancing at the door handle and then back at his hands. With a quick blink, the bottles vanished, and he entered the room already speaking.