In which there is not much to say
Sep. 5th, 2012 11:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katzenstreuAuthor: Katzenstreu Gesicht
Date Written: September 5th, 2012
Fandom: Crossover, Chzo Mythos/One Man Cleanup Crew
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: This took longer than it should've. I need sleep.
Cherry picking, he called it.
It was easy in a way that was almost unbecoming, the way people would forget to lock their windows that were on the second story or above. They felt safe high up when they shouldn't be. Like gods, perched up above the world.
They just needed to be reminded of their mortality, he supposed. They would wake up in the morning, not noticing a thing out of place. It might take them a few days to notice a missing broach, but perhaps less to see that painting kept in the hallway was gone.
But he didn't always take from the rich, no. The saying about trashes and treasures definitely applied to him. The city was full of abandoned complexes, with little secrets occasionally left inside them. This one was nothing any more special than the rest; it was old, dusty and the windows were all either boarded up or broken. There was a dead bird on the window where he saw it, a painting that belonged to no artist he could recollect, which might've meant it was the creation of some no name soul, left behind for some arbitrary reason or another.
It was rather tacky, he thought. The colors were bright, even in the half-hearted light of the moon. It had no worth to him or to anyone else in the world. He passed it by, and found something a little more substantial. It was an old gun, perhaps from the early 20th century, small and almost bony in a way, but easy to handle. Still, he preferred his umbrella-concealed taser for nearly any situation over a gun.
Then, a shadow appeared, blocking and devouring what light the moon had previously offered. "If I were you," a voice from the shadow spoke, "I'd put that back."
"Would you happen to be the owner of this, then?" asked Trilby, in an effort to sound casual despite the unnerving effect of not being able to see the speaker's face.
"I would not."
"...Not a fellow practitioner of stealing from the unworthy, I hope. I do hate rivals."
"On the contrary, I'd label myself as stealing from the worthy." It almost sounded like the shadowed man, for the voice indeed sounded masculine, was smiling.
"Sounds a tad villainous, if you ask me-"
"I did not."
"Still," went on Trilby, "at least we won't cross paths in any future endeavors with our careers." He paused. "It's a lovely gun," he murmurer, half to himself, "still loaded, even," he then turned back to his fellow 'thief', "Might I at least keep it, as a souvenir of our meeting?"
The shadow slipped closer. It whispered to him. "No." And then there was a crackle, a gunshot, darkness and labored breathing.
He was careless, he guessed.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Is that blood?" Love asked, much later.
"Yes, but not my own."
Date Written: September 5th, 2012
Fandom: Crossover, Chzo Mythos/One Man Cleanup Crew
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: This took longer than it should've. I need sleep.
Cherry picking, he called it.
It was easy in a way that was almost unbecoming, the way people would forget to lock their windows that were on the second story or above. They felt safe high up when they shouldn't be. Like gods, perched up above the world.
They just needed to be reminded of their mortality, he supposed. They would wake up in the morning, not noticing a thing out of place. It might take them a few days to notice a missing broach, but perhaps less to see that painting kept in the hallway was gone.
But he didn't always take from the rich, no. The saying about trashes and treasures definitely applied to him. The city was full of abandoned complexes, with little secrets occasionally left inside them. This one was nothing any more special than the rest; it was old, dusty and the windows were all either boarded up or broken. There was a dead bird on the window where he saw it, a painting that belonged to no artist he could recollect, which might've meant it was the creation of some no name soul, left behind for some arbitrary reason or another.
It was rather tacky, he thought. The colors were bright, even in the half-hearted light of the moon. It had no worth to him or to anyone else in the world. He passed it by, and found something a little more substantial. It was an old gun, perhaps from the early 20th century, small and almost bony in a way, but easy to handle. Still, he preferred his umbrella-concealed taser for nearly any situation over a gun.
Then, a shadow appeared, blocking and devouring what light the moon had previously offered. "If I were you," a voice from the shadow spoke, "I'd put that back."
"Would you happen to be the owner of this, then?" asked Trilby, in an effort to sound casual despite the unnerving effect of not being able to see the speaker's face.
"I would not."
"...Not a fellow practitioner of stealing from the unworthy, I hope. I do hate rivals."
"On the contrary, I'd label myself as stealing from the worthy." It almost sounded like the shadowed man, for the voice indeed sounded masculine, was smiling.
"Sounds a tad villainous, if you ask me-"
"I did not."
"Still," went on Trilby, "at least we won't cross paths in any future endeavors with our careers." He paused. "It's a lovely gun," he murmurer, half to himself, "still loaded, even," he then turned back to his fellow 'thief', "Might I at least keep it, as a souvenir of our meeting?"
The shadow slipped closer. It whispered to him. "No." And then there was a crackle, a gunshot, darkness and labored breathing.
He was careless, he guessed.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Is that blood?" Love asked, much later.
"Yes, but not my own."