no more idle hands |
| Rust stained gloves kept his bare hands from the splatter. Running along his forearm, which protected by the barrier of Nth plating, was only allowed by the gravity that pulled at everything to bring him down. His mount, the stance of satisfaction, would be short lived before moving again. It's what he remembered frankly about Gotham. Moves and never settling. As homes were nothing more than beds of worthy women, or hotels that housed him temporarily, he held little attachments to the places he's seen or been in for limited bits of time. One drag was taken, close to dropping the burning cigarette off the side of the building that was in the less than pretty part of town. Since moving in on territory shared by many, old foes, and adversaries, Slade had to make the most of this flipped world. He was always going to be the outsider, the lone wolf that arrived, made a mark or none at all, before moving to the next. Be it by targets needing to meet an end or for the sake of casualties not having the answers required. Mercy was no where to be found when a man was determined to inch his way of seeking a way to leave one place of central memories. Truth was given to him the moment of awakening, seeing the price paid for having nothing to lose in his old life to having many in Boston. Alternate times and places that covered the trenches of his legacy was a factor to walk away from because changing the past was moot in discovering what mattered. Like anyone known, left to fend for self and in the foreign but familiar face of the old world, this wasn't where he belonged. He had reminders of second chances through the likeness of Nathan, the surrogate of his sinister deeds and overall root of some change. The cynical part remained. The part that lusted after suitable contracts would never go. The challenge to make for stimulating circumstances was with them and as one, he needed that man's small and endearing optimism to continue on. Smoke filled his face, shielding it while he waited for the orchestra of explosions to wail in a symphonic praise. To awaken while he remained unmoved by the act. To feel something that wasn't tied to unyielding affections of one, while it was shared with two souls. Resistance, fear, the rouse of maniacal uprisings where none were ever a factor. There was always something amidst, whether by leads of the racing mind or one relative to someone else. He broke free from the plume, whistling it away while the rush and disappearance any nicotine gave was more habit that need. He tossed the burning stick, watching it's decent from the broken window of a desolate building. Inhabitable with remains of past destructions whispering from each corner he passed through. The busted window, industrial in its size and marred by wear and stains didn't block singular vision to view the last moments as time was ticking. The city's grid took a day to re-map again and he let the fragrant smell of death finally settle as his senses were surrounded by it. It was on him, humming off with the stench of last breaths, urination, and final goodbyes. The two bodies broiled over in the corner were nothing of unsuspecting lackies he had a time attempting to crack at while bouncing heads around for answers. Echoing of bones rest in his ears, ringing constantly but he had more to do, things to accomplish before the dance he was waiting for later. Slade wiped the speckle of crimson from his bearded cheek, unaware if it was his own or theirs. Not the last of his hands being unclean, his expression unmoved while recollecting items that were mobile and to part with him just as much as he was determined to be. Nestled were acquired tools, clothes pilfered on someone else's dime to change, and days worth accumulation of resources he was lucky enough to procure. His silence was key, so was minding most of his business while adjusting to the rift that destruction could do within the brunt of urban decay. His heart took to cross this new threshold, and was a signal of leaving less care with a city he had no place being in except to rifle with the start of possible warfare between prominent figures of an underworld he knew much of but wanted their riches. Stalking and mapping out whereabouts was his foundation on gaining means of securing what needed to be once visits would be made. His cue to leave was a thunderous boom, guessed by distance of neighborhood away from the nucleus of the city, and one by one, the boomed symphony reverberated through the distance, not stopping him to escape to follow the trail back under the radar as he had been before. What was often commonplace and a bed for the chaotic to thrive, he used as an advantage. Slade managed to break away from the dank space and out of the perch of where he could have left behind pieces of himself. His true place had grown to be in Boston, but acknowledged making most of the inconvenience by letting idle hands muck up what either didn't matter or mattered to some. His count of bodies wouldn't cease that moment but amount the more his stretch of being consumed with more than just the need for things to do as an overall bide of time. The streets felt his footing, inconspicuous of departure while burning away to enter the wheels borrowed for less of a good time and more to move around in before ditching. It's rigged starter was enough to get it going after filling the trunk with a heavy bag, that including the mark of a mask that kept anonymity but knew the name. Tires would burn, exhaust thick and filling the air, awakening the wino laid across a rummage of garbage as the vehicle and Slade in it eased off from the dead alley to streets of an unknown destination. Cover from fire wasn't his problem any more nor was leaving with enacting more violent tendencies that spurred from an merger of maddening ways he was momentarily left to be unaware of. |