#sortamaliicious

The sad thing is; this isn’t the worst he’s dealt with. He grits his teeth & he stands & shakes off the dizziness. Holding his stomach feels like a fruitless task. Blood still falls from his wounds, leaving a puddle beneath him. If it wasn’t for the wall behind him he probably would’ve collapsed but he refuses to break any further.

Ryan rips his mask off his head & tosses it on the ground. “What does it look like I’m doing?” He asks, a sneer on his face. “Get lost before they come back you idiot.”

        She has half a mind to oblige. Leave him in a puddle of  his  own BLOOD and  let  whatever  happens  happen. She’d done it before; she could do it again. Instead, she’d take  the  excuse  of the opportunity  to  see  beneath  his MASK; buying time.

        Humanity. What always stopped her from being behind a gun. Anxiety flared, heart giving a forewarning pang, &&. despite her mind, her heart brought her closer not to the Fixer, but the morceau de merde HUMAN she’s been contracted to work with.       Stooping to pick up the mask before hesitantly, nervously, trying to wrap a hand around his waist, refusing to look at him.

“Send εїз and I’ll make a starter from the last song I listened to.”

Hope Avenue, by Stars

This isn’t how police interrogations usually go.

But then, police interrogations are usually done in a station. They’re usually done under bright lights, enclosed by thick brick walls, the faint sound of flipping pages heard through a crack in the door while steely-eyed officers watch behind treated glass.

They’re not usually performed in the back of an unmarked van, parked in the Los Santos desert.

There is a steely-eyed man, though, and he’s been pacing the three-steps width of the van for a time, his stare never leaving the man tied up in the back.

It’s not every day that the LSPD gets their hands on the Vagabond. On their own, they couldn’t have done it in a thousand years, but this man, this contractor in the crispest, cleanest white suit this side of the Atlantic -- he’s managed it, with his tricks, his machinations. Now, it’s hard to tell if he’s thinking of the next step, or simply savouring the view.

He sighs, as if he’s exasperated -- but a smile plucks at the corner of his lips.

“We’ll start again,” he says matter-of-factly, turning back toward the two double doors, “When the shifts have changed.”

He thumps his fist, bloodied, but not with his blood, twice against the doors, and a guard outside opens it for him. In the piercing light of the sun, he glances back toward the Vagabond, with a smirk.

Gavin’s breath caught in his throat, hand running through his previously perfect hair, mask of the Golden Boy quickly falling apart from his being. He couldn’t fathom that he was the one to have Ryan’s, the Vagabond’s, affections. And if he could, he would share the the same. “I… Ryan. It’s, it’s not that I don’t like you. I mean, I think you’re physically attractive but romance is… hard. It’s difficult for me. I don’t, I can’t explain it. I’m sorry…”

❛ What's up with the face paint? Is that your way of expressing your creativity? ❜ Grin on her face and chuckle to her voice, simply trying to poke a little fun.

There’s definitely a lot but for Ryan it’s nothing new. He’s unfazed by the sigh due to all the carnage that he’s been exposed to over the years but it’s probably not best for him to forget that Warren isn’t a criminal. They shouldn’t have to see the Vagabond ever & it’s even better that the man is levelheaded enough not to strike. Could a knife even kill an A.I? He shakes the thought as he shrugs off his jacket. “Yeah? You should’ve seen the other guy.”

That wasn’t funny.

      THAT really isn’t funny.