![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[pre entrance #2]
Aug. 30th, 2011 05:01 pmThundering hooves. Three riders coming over the ridge.
(His fingers curl around the rock he's been trying to hammer this iron off his wrist with, just in case.)
Three riders. Armed. One older than the other two; that one speaks first:
"We're riding towards Absolution. You know how far west we are?"
(He has no idea.)
A younger one -- maybe one of the man's sons? -- next:
"Maybe he's a dummy."
The older one again, suddenly off his horse and in his face:
"Some reason you don't wanna answer my question, friend?"
(He has no idea.)
The other son speaks up:
"Look, there, he's carryin' iron on his wrist...and he's been shot."
(He glances down at his side. Shot. That would explain the pain. And blood.)
"Could be he's done broke outta the hoosegow...might well be bounty money."
The older man is walking closer, drawing his shotgun from the scabbard on his back. "Not your lucky day, stranger. Turn real slow and start walkin'."
The dog (when did the dog show up?) growls.
He doesn't move. The man with the gun steps closer; the boy on the horse shifts in the saddle.
"I said high-heel it, or--"
(It all happens so fast.
He's got the gun in his hands
click
and their daddy has a hole blown clean through his chest
click
and his eldest boy is falling from the saddle
click
and his youngest -- only surviving -- son is on the ground, staring up the barrel of the weapon.)
"P-please, God, don't--"
The chamber is empty, but the butt of the shotgun comes down against the boy's skull with a resounding thud.)
He turns and glances at the dog, then down to his bare feet, and then at the bodies.
He needs a pair a boots, a gun, and one of their horses.
And a hat.
A few hours later, he's being held at gunpoint for the second time in the afternoon.
This man, however, he doesn't cut down.
(Turns out he's a preacher, so that decision will probably work in his favor at some point.)
The preacher is handy with a needle and thread, so he enlists the man's help in stitching up the hole in his side.
"Odd wound. Looks...cauterized. This ain't a gunshot wound. Where'd you get it?"
The man who can't remember anything can at least remember the answer to that; he stares at the preacher.
"Right. You don't remember."
(His fingers curl around the rock he's been trying to hammer this iron off his wrist with, just in case.)
Three riders. Armed. One older than the other two; that one speaks first:
"We're riding towards Absolution. You know how far west we are?"
(He has no idea.)
A younger one -- maybe one of the man's sons? -- next:
"Maybe he's a dummy."
The older one again, suddenly off his horse and in his face:
"Some reason you don't wanna answer my question, friend?"
(He has no idea.)
The other son speaks up:
"Look, there, he's carryin' iron on his wrist...and he's been shot."
(He glances down at his side. Shot. That would explain the pain. And blood.)
"Could be he's done broke outta the hoosegow...might well be bounty money."
The older man is walking closer, drawing his shotgun from the scabbard on his back. "Not your lucky day, stranger. Turn real slow and start walkin'."
The dog (when did the dog show up?) growls.
He doesn't move. The man with the gun steps closer; the boy on the horse shifts in the saddle.
"I said high-heel it, or--"
(It all happens so fast.
He's got the gun in his hands
click
and their daddy has a hole blown clean through his chest
click
and his eldest boy is falling from the saddle
click
and his youngest -- only surviving -- son is on the ground, staring up the barrel of the weapon.)
"P-please, God, don't--"
The chamber is empty, but the butt of the shotgun comes down against the boy's skull with a resounding thud.)
He turns and glances at the dog, then down to his bare feet, and then at the bodies.
He needs a pair a boots, a gun, and one of their horses.
And a hat.
A few hours later, he's being held at gunpoint for the second time in the afternoon.
This man, however, he doesn't cut down.
(Turns out he's a preacher, so that decision will probably work in his favor at some point.)
The preacher is handy with a needle and thread, so he enlists the man's help in stitching up the hole in his side.
"Odd wound. Looks...cauterized. This ain't a gunshot wound. Where'd you get it?"
The man who can't remember anything can at least remember the answer to that; he stares at the preacher.
"Right. You don't remember."
[pre entrance]
Aug. 18th, 2011 11:07 pmBuzzing.
Static, that hums and fades as his brain attempts to reboot itself
Reloading.
Heat, and light.
Lights.
Blood on his lips.
(Dried, like the mud caked on his clothes.)
Buzzing.
A tickle on his nose. An itch he can't scratch.
(He doesn't remember how.)
Reloading.
Static.
The insect (a fly) crawls across his forehead.
Buzzing.
Too much light.
His fingers twitch.
(Dirt. Sand. Twigs.)
Buzzing.
Blinding light.
(He remembers screaming. He remembers blood. And light.)
Too much light.
Reloading.
His fingers twitch again.
And his toes.
And then a leg.
Buzzing.
Too much light. Screaming. Heat.
(His brain feels like it's melting inside his skull.)
Melting.
Burning.
His lips curl into a grimace, skin cracking.
He starts to bleed.
Lights.
Reloading.
Syntax error.
(It's time to wake up.)
Static, that hums and fades as his brain attempts to reboot itself
Reloading.
Heat, and light.
Lights.
Blood on his lips.
(Dried, like the mud caked on his clothes.)
Buzzing.
A tickle on his nose. An itch he can't scratch.
(He doesn't remember how.)
Reloading.
Static.
The insect (a fly) crawls across his forehead.
Buzzing.
Too much light.
His fingers twitch.
(Dirt. Sand. Twigs.)
Buzzing.
Blinding light.
(He remembers screaming. He remembers blood. And light.)
Too much light.
Reloading.
His fingers twitch again.
And his toes.
And then a leg.
Buzzing.
Too much light. Screaming. Heat.
(His brain feels like it's melting inside his skull.)
Melting.
Burning.
His lips curl into a grimace, skin cracking.
He starts to bleed.
Lights.
Reloading.
Syntax error.
(It's time to wake up.)
