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« on: October 22, 2013, 11:31:29 PM »
Lawrence's trip through the rather seedier side of the nexus bore fruit. A prostitute mentioned something about an out of towner holed up in a motel downtown somewhere. The clues started coming together as he could hear the Redheaded Driver begin to grow eager. Oh, he was here alright.
Spill his blood devour his soul an eye for an eye revenge vengeance shoot him kill him- The mental voice crackled with a noise like napalm igniting, with an undercurrent of a sputtering engine.
'Patience. We'll find him soon enough.'
Soon.
The mental voice crackled with a noise like napalm igniting, with an undercurrent of a sputtering engine.
Soon was right; the gangbanger had decided to go to ground under the protection of a man known only as 'The Don.' Not such a big man without his crew was he? Lawrence remembered his face, that sneering sense of power the man had held in that clarifying moment of death as the bullets flew into Lawrence's body. This was it. After this, he'd hopefully never need to kill again, whatever he told his Geist - he was in the driver's seat, not him. This was his body, his choice.
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The Punk was growing antsy in his room. Was he coming? Maybe he'd lost him? Maybe he'd escaped? No, no, that was impossible. Santa Muerte would protect him though. She was with him, he could feel it. This Reaper Man wouldn't get him as well. And if he tried...
The Punk's arms cradled a Skorpion. The bastard that tried to break through that door would be filled with lead if the Don's guards didn't get to him first. It was a good gun - he'd used it many times before, and it had never failed him before. It wouldn't fail him now.
After the lights suddenly went out and the radio started crooning in an eerily distorted version of a Johnny Cash song however, that little bit of confidence went out the window.
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Lawrence had checked in for a couple hours, in a room close to where he'd parked his black Firebird. He'd figured out the room rather quickly, there were a few bored looking thugs hanging around close to it. Now was the time. Laying down on his bed, he unlocked the Gate to the power of the dead.
The Industrial Boneyard swept through the entire hotel, a few machines escaping his utter control, but those that did... he witnessed the drug deal going on five doors down, the tawdry love affairs of several couples, and there he was - armed, but that hadn't saved the others. The Redheaded Driver was visible as well in this sight peculiar to the dead, the Twilight of the world showing his true form - his iris's replaced with the reverse of NATO shells, his body wreathed in napalm and body seemingly consisting of parts of a car rearranged into a humanoid shape. Lawrence could smell the cordite on him from firefights and the Geists own likely death.
That wasn't important though. With a thought, Lawrence unlocked his target's door, killed his lights beyond repair, and turned on the radio to broadcast on a channel the Twilight knew well - they didn't call it suicide music for nothing. He dispelled the Boneyard afterwords, chambering his .45 and shoving it in his jacket pocket.
Time?
'Yeah, it's time.'
Lawrence noted the missing thugs and blessed his luck - must be on break. He'd need to move fast now. Throwing open the door with the .45 already in hand, he noticed as if in slow motion his killer raising his gun to shoot him again... only to not fire, as Lawrence willed the firing pin to break from another twist of the Key. It was tougher than he believed it would have been, but it worked. And that was enough for Lawrence as he twisted his second Key, his Geist roaring in approval at the action. The Curse of the Stigmata took hold - and blood sprayed out in a gory fashion as the Punk screamed in pain, feeling nails driven into his entire body, leaving him a writhing mess on the ground as he heard thousands of voices screaming into his ears.
"Just... just... kill me..."
Standing over his prostrate and begging killer, Lawrence raised his .45, leveled it straight between the eyes, and without a hint of emotion besides the Redheaded Driver's eager laughter, pulled the trigger.
Santa Muerte's blessings didn't defend from the already dead.
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Or some other scenario that gets people from that group interacting with him that I'm too tired and brain dead to think of, I trust you more to think of something right now than I trust myself.