[he has every nuance of the posted schedule memorized; Hiruma's sweeping writing, when each employee will be present (if Mikoto doesn't come in an hour late, if Nicolas doesn't leave an hour early), notices immediately when "BADOU NAILS" gets penned in (weekends especially, when they're all -- drinking, whoring, footballing, whatever it is the ragtag team of gunpowder specialists do)]
[and it's not that he couldn't quit TF without a moment's hesitation]
[all of the employees that come and go -- fuck them. all of the regular customers in and out -- fuck them. the owner -- fuck him the most.]
[it's the paycheck, probably. the comfort of a gunshop in too-ordinary Holly Heights, the smell of metal and the rebelling noise of gunshots from the shooting range. the sense of obligation he still feels for a promise that comes over phone calls, despite Ergastulum feeling like the mirage in the desert but not nearly the oasis]
[he could ask for the schedule change, but the bossman was hardly comforting the first go around]
[so instead he sits at the register, two hours into his shift, expecting to see dirty red sneakers he's never actually seen on feet, tattered jeans he's never actually seen on legs, a shitty scowl he's only ever seen over a video feed -- all come wrestling through the door as if fighting air itself with every step]
[and, just as the bell rings, the professional gangster will ask:]
action; triggerfingers
[he has every nuance of the posted schedule memorized; Hiruma's sweeping writing, when each employee will be present (if Mikoto doesn't come in an hour late, if Nicolas doesn't leave an hour early), notices immediately when "BADOU NAILS" gets penned in (weekends especially, when they're all -- drinking, whoring, footballing, whatever it is the ragtag team of gunpowder specialists do)]
[and it's not that he couldn't quit TF without a moment's hesitation]
[all of the employees that come and go -- fuck them. all of the regular customers in and out -- fuck them. the owner -- fuck him the most.]
[it's the paycheck, probably. the comfort of a gunshop in too-ordinary Holly Heights, the smell of metal and the rebelling noise of gunshots from the shooting range. the sense of obligation he still feels for a promise that comes over phone calls, despite Ergastulum feeling like the mirage in the desert but not nearly the oasis]
[he could ask for the schedule change, but the bossman was hardly comforting the first go around]
[so instead he sits at the register, two hours into his shift, expecting to see dirty red sneakers he's never actually seen on feet, tattered jeans he's never actually seen on legs, a shitty scowl he's only ever seen over a video feed -- all come wrestling through the door as if fighting air itself with every step]
[and, just as the bell rings, the professional gangster will ask:]
Help ya find somethin'?
[from behind his paper and his cloud of smoke]