[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:]
[in utter shambles, as predicted, he arrives, and stops dead at the too-familiar voice. the boy hasn't done his homework, and it's all over his face; he's been busy, the heavy bruises on his left cheek say, he's been distracted, says the sunken, visible eye, and he's been overtaxed, says the package of smokes sticking out of his jeans pocket, a daub of red and white on a washed-out, tattered canvas]
[a brown coat that's so shitty, so ragged it looks more like an animal pelt is tied around his waist, and it flaps behind him like a flag of instant defeat as the door swings shut]
[Badou hasn't done his homework, but it's too late to beg for an extension now (detention, it was, then)]
[and to his credit, after that initial surprise, Badou goes right up to that smog, turning a stupid, sharp freckled nose up into it; he's too used to people who hide behind addictions and words]
...Yah, ya seen a shitty dye-job with a mouth full'a herpes an' bullshit attached?
[the paper lowers in a crinkle, and worick facades (everything) the surprise on his face as well as a gambler who just got caught with an ace in his sleeve]
Well hey there ho there, look who it is.
[wrists cross over the folded faces like a dog's ready, playful paws and he leans forward curiously]
Ah, sorry, Suoh's carpet matches the drapes an' mine's natural. Ya sure you got the right place?
[of course, Badou knows he's being fucked around; the scowl sets deeper, but he stands his ground, ignoring the playful paws (he's outmatched, and he knows it; it doesn't mean he'll turn belly-up, and that's the real tragedy, here)]
M'lookin' for Hiruma. M'supposed ta start workin' here today, an' he fed me a bunch'a shit about a hunnerd and twenty percent! so I wanna find out what the hell that even is an' if 12 bucks a hour is really worth it.
[his time's not the hot commodity, but he's still got other offers to see to]
[worick imagines -- badou's hands bleach-stained from the bathrooms, badou's bruised face covered in wet gunpowder soot, badou's sun-starved body on a too-hot roof with bubbling tar (did they even do that here? it's The Future, after all)]
Must be a shitty-ass job. Whatcha need money fer so bad anyhow?
[yer in my back pocket, kid, and that ain't no good place ta be]
[it'd be hard to call him on whether or not this was the truth unless you were Hiruma or Nicolas; plenty of reasons to lie, plenty of reason to tell the truth]
[make a dog feel fed and feel special, he'll keep coming back; he can play that shitty captain's game too, passing the kid back and forth like a fucking ping-pong ball]
I think he's droppin' off a deposit at the bank, should be back soon. I can give ya some busy work 'til then if ya want.
[he's unable to discern if it's in fact fer sure; he wonders if D -- if anyone could read this asshole consistently, suspects not (how do you get to be so good at lies? he's not sure he wants to know)]
[he's always been much too hungry to feel fed and special, so the beckon towards something to struggle at unwittingly pacifies]
[it's not ideal -- he'd rather not be taking (more) orders from this man -- but so few things rarely are]
[a few doors slam in the succession; the one to the utility closet, the one to the range (even trying to camouflage himself in baggy clothing, he's as skinny as the damn broom over his shoulder)]
[it doesn't take him that long, non-withstanding one explosive occasion with a customer and the following explosive shouting match (Are you fuckin' slow?! Put the rifle down for ten fuckin' seconds!)]
[the third slam eventually comes, and he's back in the shop carrying a slightly larger raincloud than before (the question lingers; how did this kid look so dry and flammable all the time?)]
[he doesn't bother putting the broom away yet, and his hands (and the bandages around his hands) are greasy with gun-refuse]
[the gangster knows what to do with them; what to tell them to get their money, what words (buttons to push, triggers to pull) to say to get them to speak, spill, bleed]
[worick is the one that lacks instructions -- he doesn't know what to do with himself when it's just loneliness with another person in the room (is that it? in all his well-readness, he can't summon up the right word; does it exist?)]
[ -- he smiles, because suddenly he remembers himself (it's the only thing he ever gets to forget)]
The "don't shoot yerself in the dick with the merchandise" policy, probably. I wouldn't suggest shopliftin', f'that's what yer here fer. You won't sneak nothin' outta the boss's inventory without him noticin'.
[the smile is off-putting; he's not the type of boy to (ever) smile back reflexively]
Yah right. I ain't got a death wish. An' I ain't a thief neither!
[they both know it's a lie; every kid on the street became a thief within their first week (it was that, or a killer, or a whore -- the options usually didn't leave much room for choice)]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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]
Re: action; triggerfingers
[a brown coat that's so shitty, so ragged it looks more like an animal pelt is tied around his waist, and it flaps behind him like a flag of instant defeat as the door swings shut]
[Badou hasn't done his homework, but it's too late to beg for an extension now (detention, it was, then)]
[and to his credit, after that initial surprise, Badou goes right up to that smog, turning a stupid, sharp freckled nose up into it; he's too used to people who hide behind addictions and words]
...Yah, ya seen a shitty dye-job with a mouth full'a herpes an' bullshit attached?
Re: action; triggerfingers
Well hey there ho there, look who it is.
[wrists cross over the folded faces like a dog's ready, playful paws and he leans forward curiously]
Ah, sorry, Suoh's carpet matches the drapes an' mine's natural. Ya sure you got the right place?
Re: action; triggerfingers
[of course, Badou knows he's being fucked around; the scowl sets deeper, but he stands his ground, ignoring the playful paws (he's outmatched, and he knows it; it doesn't mean he'll turn belly-up, and that's the real tragedy, here)]
M'lookin' for Hiruma. M'supposed ta start workin' here today, an' he fed me a bunch'a shit about a hunnerd and twenty percent! so I wanna find out what the hell that even is an' if 12 bucks a hour is really worth it.
[his time's not the hot commodity, but he's still got other offers to see to]
Re: action; triggerfingers
[worick imagines -- badou's hands bleach-stained from the bathrooms, badou's bruised face covered in wet gunpowder soot, badou's sun-starved body on a too-hot roof with bubbling tar (did they even do that here? it's The Future, after all)]
Must be a shitty-ass job. Whatcha need money fer so bad anyhow?
[yer in my back pocket, kid, and that ain't no good place ta be]
Re: action; triggerfingers
Drugs, booze. Fuckin' rock concerts. Why else would I need money so bad?
[the bitterness that should be there at a lost youth just isn't; he's only annoyed Worick is making him jump through a hoop of his own devising]
-- Wait, what're you gettin' paid?
Re: action; triggerfingers
[it'd be hard to call him on whether or not this was the truth unless you were Hiruma or Nicolas; plenty of reasons to lie, plenty of reason to tell the truth]
[make a dog feel fed and feel special, he'll keep coming back; he can play that shitty captain's game too, passing the kid back and forth like a fucking ping-pong ball]
I think he's droppin' off a deposit at the bank, should be back soon. I can give ya some busy work 'til then if ya want.
Re: action; triggerfingers
[he's always been much too hungry to feel fed and special, so the beckon towards something to struggle at unwittingly pacifies]
[it's not ideal -- he'd rather not be taking (more) orders from this man -- but so few things rarely are]
Okay.
Re: action; triggerfingers
[the gigolo gestures at a closet marked with a UTILITY sign, broom-ready]
[he figures the kid's probably seen his way about a few times by now; he'd gotten word of a hopeful purchase for a firearm, had chuckled at it -- ]
Don't go hidin' in no corners, ya might get shot.
[the way he does now, full of jokes no one else laughs at]
Re: action; triggerfingers
Don't go pullin' no triggers when I'm out there an' maybe I won't.
[and those red sneakers kick all the air out of the way towards the utility closet]
Re: action; triggerfingers
[ -- he calls to a bony back]
[the paper gets lifted again; his eye has already memorized every pixel of every word, but he'll take anything to distract from that broken face]
Re: action; triggerfingers
[it doesn't take him that long, non-withstanding one explosive occasion with a customer and the following explosive shouting match (Are you fuckin' slow?! Put the rifle down for ten fuckin' seconds!)]
[the third slam eventually comes, and he's back in the shop carrying a slightly larger raincloud than before (the question lingers; how did this kid look so dry and flammable all the time?)]
[he doesn't bother putting the broom away yet, and his hands (and the bandages around his hands) are greasy with gun-refuse]
[over black-and-white, red all over calls]
What else?
Re: action; triggerfingers
[the gangster knows what to do with them; what to tell them to get their money, what words (buttons to push, triggers to pull) to say to get them to speak, spill, bleed]
[worick is the one that lacks instructions -- he doesn't know what to do with himself when it's just loneliness with another person in the room (is that it? in all his well-readness, he can't summon up the right word; does it exist?)]
[what else, Badou asks, like it's that easy]
[in the world of a child, it probably is]
...Ya ever shot a gun before?
Re: action; triggerfingers
[and while Badou is still is a child, it's always obvious that he's not a child of the above world, that's for sure]
Why? S'that the shoplifters policy?
Re: action; triggerfingers
The "don't shoot yerself in the dick with the merchandise" policy, probably. I wouldn't suggest shopliftin', f'that's what yer here fer. You won't sneak nothin' outta the boss's inventory without him noticin'.
Re: action; triggerfingers
Yah right. I ain't got a death wish. An' I ain't a thief neither!
[they both know it's a lie; every kid on the street became a thief within their first week (it was that, or a killer, or a whore -- the options usually didn't leave much room for choice)]
What'dya care if I can shoot? Ya nervous?