#xspaceoddity

                        --- ...c'mere."

Despite the words, the Cops don't actually wait for him to approach --

instead, they do so themselves, and step forward, wrapping their arms

blood-obsessed-burnt

foulmouthedexperiment

anthropo1ogica1

qxinns

xspaceoddity

    The accident had come out of nowhere; he'd been running a routine job, a heart. Retrieval should have been no problem. He'd done plenty of jobs that night, each one essentially the same as the last -- he shows up, the overdue person freaks out, he puts them down like a sack of potatoes, and he carves their innards out. Bag, tag, take it back to HQ, fill out the pink slip. It's a messy job, but it suits them, and whether the person requests the ambulance stand by or not, if there's a chance they'll be afforded a second chance -- it's mostly depending on their credit. -- he usually calls the wagon in anyway. He likes to give people a fighting chance.

    To be honest, though, he'd been considering getting out of the game. Go back to standard police work -- he'd been good at that, both of them had been. Interrogations, intimidation, it had worked well for them. And far fewer people died directly because of their actions. (Fewer, not none.) Times had been good -- but the pay had been better for Repo. He'd thought it respectable, at the time. And it's not bad -- a job's a job, and he's got five bars tattooed onto his neck that say he's very good at his job.

    And then, the accident. 

    He'd woken up in a hospital bed, feeling like he'd been hit by a train, fluorescent lights stinging his eyes, a pounding in his head that made him feel like he was going to throw up, and a weird fogginess in his head that spoke of morphine. He'd only been half-conscious when he'd registered he wasn't alone, had blinked three times before he could make out Business's face, and that too-sweet smile he used to reassure and charm clients.

    You owe it to your family, pal.

     Ma and Pa -- he didn't want them to have to hear about how their son was an idiot, wrecked his heart while trying to retrieve one because he didn't check which way the current was flowing on his equipment. Didn't want them to have to bury him because he was a stubborn ass who refused a life-saving transplant, even if it meant signing his life over.

    You owe it to yourself.

    He hadn't wanted this, hadn't wanted this contraption beating away inside his chest. What he owed himself was a life without having to rely on this damn company's machinery. Could he afford it? Easily, as long as he kept up the job.

    Except he couldn't keep up the job, which is what has brought him here.

    Former top Repo, laying where he's been left to die by someone he'd been sent here to, in essence, kill. Just keep doing your job, buddy, and you've got nothing to worry about! You find someone overdue, you repo them, and you move on to the next one. You don't come back until you're right again, got it?

    He hadn't been able to do it. He'd taken two down, had looked them over, had pinpointed what forgs were overdue, calculated what he'd earn for bringing them in...and had sat his kit down, and sat down beside it. He'd wondered who these people were. Why they'd needed those lungs, that esophagus, that kidney. Why these parts had failed them. How long they'd been on the run because they couldn't make payments on the only things keeping them alive.

    And then the blow had come out of nowhere, knocked him out clean, and for the second time, he's found himself flat on his back with no full recollection of what happened previously.

    But damn, his head hurts.

    In two days, they're going to come for his heart, and they're going to cut it out of his chest just like he's done to countless others over the past five years.

    At least th'stars are nice tonight.

[2:13:04 AM] Miri: IMAGINING UM

[2:13:11 AM] Ivan: NAKED BOB ROSS ON THE BEACH

My character is dead and yours is playing with a ouija board. Send me a “↝” for the short phrase my character would guide your character’s hands to spell.

R O G E R T H A T B O O B E L L

    “How’re y’feelin?”

    Blue’s trembling, but grinning; he’s seated in the passenger seat of an unmarked car B had bought with unmarked bills, and the now former Quartermaster leans over to press a kiss to his cheek with a smile that means he’s about to say something really —

    “Shaken, not stirred.”