trigger.
@neoorua on the last day of the system failure, just before the city comes back to life
by tuesday night, gun almost thinks he can get used to this. the absence of technology. funny, because his livelihood is so reliant on it and customers have already run around to find him, frantic, wanting to book the first appointment available when the power comes back to erase the trauma they’ve suffered over the outage. and, unsurprisingly, he’s obliged happily. spoke them off the ledge, so to speak, when some asked him if the power would even come back at all, looking up at him like he would know. would have the answers. of course, he’d say. voice soothing, smile gentle, your sins will be forgiven soon. and that was that. another week, month even, booked.
sometimes, it almost frightens him how easily it happens.
other times, he drinks to that. like tonight. amber liquid filled a little too high in his glass as he sits in the darkness of absolution. with his detonators offline and cctv’s out of commission, he’s babysat the machine and his database for a better part of the blackout. paranoid as ever that someone might take this chance to riot, to loot, to destroy everything he’s clawed his way out of the gutter for. but after the umpteenth customer coming in frantically with scars evident on their face, no longer hidden by the magic of tech, his mind wanders to a different one.
a face framed with dusty blue locks and tired, dark eyes.
a face used to looking brighter, reliant on it.
idly, he wonders how she’s handling it. then he wonders why he’s wondering. then he looks at the glass in his hands. then at a full bottle of wine in his glass cabinet.
half an hour later, he’s at her door with that bottle in his hand.
this is just a courtesy visit, he convinces himself. it’s how he built up his original clientele, charming them until they couldn’t resist. and it’s how he’s kept them to this day, rapport. building a sense that he cares about them, looks out for them when really, they’re just another name in his books. oh rua isn’t just a name, though, but he pretends she is. he compartmentalizes the same way he does when some pervert asks for the latest.
and he does so now, shutting that part of him out, the businessman. knocking at her door as just gun. smiling something small when she answers warily, eyes avoiding his like they’re back at absolution and no amount of hot water can wash her regret away quite like gun can. still, he tries to get their attention, holds the wine bottle up close to his face and gives it a little wave. “i owe you a drink,” he says by way of greeting, “for all those times i denied you one. it’s been quite a few days since your last wipe, so i’m sure it’s safe to drink now.”
