Post by atticus kai on May 8, 2017 16:18:01 GMT -5
t he punch surprised him. atticus fucking loathed surprises, and he should have seen it coming honestly. he blamed the wink – if he just didn’t wink he wouldn’t have gotten caught of guard. atticus barely saw the blur; someone running at him, fist clenched and aimed to strike. the little bastard was faster than he looked, possibly with previous military training. the punch landed right on the edge of his helmet, strong enough to break the clasp that held it on his head. it flew, clattering on the ground a few paces off. atticus felt his bike tip from the force, and he struggled to keep steady, it’s weight crushing his right leg. his brain instinctually went into fight or flight mode, muscles flexing and turning red with adrenaline and anticipation for a second attack. with a strained grunt he hefted his bike into its upright position, glaring intensely at the man standing across from him. what did this little imp think he was doing? did know who he was and that he could easily abuse his power and prevent him from using benefits of the colonies? probably not. atticus wasn’t usually one to drop his watcher status – he preferred being left the hell alone, but did make his presence known when needed. atticus stared blankly for a moment – imagination tasting the feeling of crushing the mans throat with his hands, savoring the resounding snap of his neck. this shocked him. he wasn’t born a fighter, he didn’t care for things like that. there was only one thing he cared about and she was gone. he didn’t even think her name but he could feel his soul crumple, a bitter withering of everything that made him happy. when she died – so did the parts of him that were human. that one single punch sobered him completely, and with it, his misery returned. atticus made sure not to turn his back on the people that gathered the drop point as he retrieved his helmet, eyes scanning their bodies for any sudden movements. for all he knew they could all be cheap shots. no real man took another by surprise. atticus was going to kill that guy for it, and he didn’t care for repercussions. at least, he REALLY wanted to. until his mind started playing tricks on him again. this is why atticus drank – he hated the visions of her. the number he was, the better, his brain could no longer function sober. a wisp of hair, a soft breath in his ear, the smell of wildflowers that clung to – no. atticus couldn’t kill him, even if he wanted to. not when she was there. if people were paying attention they would see the flicker of distraught that crossed his face. brief enough atticus couldn’t tell if it was even real. atticus retrieved his helmet, taking care to saunter slowly back to his bike after a brief examination showed that yes his clasp was broken. he could feel livid neurons firing rapidly in his brain, telling him to attack. fight back! do something! his cheek swelled slightly where he was hit, not yet showing signs if it would bruise. why couldn’t he do anything? was it the rational side of him? 10 v 1 was not a battle he could easily win, maybe that’s why the fucker landed his cheap shot. that settled that then – he would let this guy have this one. you might win the battle, but you will not win the war. the drop point was often full of weapons, and he knew no one would have a problem blowing his head off if shit got real. they didn’t care about him, he was just a crazy angry drunk. atticus had literally no back up as the watcher’s he was used to usually wasted their time being power hungry cop imitators, making infrequent trips to supervise the drop point. plus if the mouse-girl decided to hop in on a fight (he was sure she would), he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her…even if she was an annoying little wench. atticus rubbed his jaw, letting a laugh escape his lips. anger, resentment, and grief were thick in his guffaw, shoulders shaking with amusement and adrenaline. he stopped at the opposite side of his bike from the blue-eyed shit, squaring his shoulders and weighing his adversary out. he was smaller than atticus – but stocky, with dense practiced muscles and icy blue eyes that portrayed no feeling. the kind of person you knew not to trust when you first met – the kind who would play a fool and then stab you when you are unaware and thieve your riches. atticus withdrew himself, hardening. “i’ll see you in the colonies,” he addressed only the man, voice husky with heightened testosterone. one movement and he was again mounted, kicking his bike and yanking his gas and propelling forward in search of better things. 151 rum. |
credit to nat of adoxography.