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You enter your lair with a thoughtful frown. You normally arnt the sort to worry about a job, but the one tonight was going to be a bitch of a job. Infiltrating a government building, destroying the security equipment and stealing any and all files on the criminals of the city. It wasn’t about being silent and effective, the heros and police of the city had gotten far too cocky in there attitude, and according to your father ‘needed to be put in there GOD DAMNED PLACE’. Sending messages you could do, but you were worried about the second part of his instructions.
‘That henchmen of yours has been working for you for THREE FUCKING MONTHS NOW. Its high time he earned HIS MOTHERFUCKING PAYCHECK. He’s coming with you on the this job.”
“Yo TaVbRo?” You call into the big entryway as you come in, kicking your shoes off and padding your way through the door, your thick socks cushioning the sound as you take off your hat and shake the snow from it. “TaV, We GoT A JoB ToNiGhT.”
You’ve gotten comfortable. Saying otherwise would be an awful lie and one that you even want to try to make believable. You were a smart man, given a good deal, you knew how to appreciated it. Especially when submerged fuck-deep in mafia bullshit, it was good to have a rather grounded attitude toward the menial tasks that you’ve been trusted with.
Keep the lair clean, and Gamzee in both check and clean clothing, make coffee in the morning, take care of the finances, and occasionally do errands on various sliding scales of legal. For the lot you’ve drawn, your job is pretty easy. Your boss was even kind enough to give his word regarding your safety and comfort. Life is, for lack of a better word, good.
You wipe your hands dry on your pant-legs when the door opens. It’s better not to get too far involved in work when Gamzee was home, he had this habit of being just as untrustworthy on his own as an infant, and you’re not about to risk another opossum in the heating vent. You learned your lesson last time. “Hey, what’s up?”
Looking at him is like a punch to the chest. In the three months you’ve worked for the strange mobster, you’ve gotten a pretty good hold on his personality, and that look feels like he’s just about signed you up to get packed up and shipped away. Or worse.
The word ‘we’ has never felt so terrifying. “…We have a job?” All you can do is stand, hope, and pray to a god you only somewhat follow.
The people who have been following for some time knows what that means.
Coming soon: Tav’s butt.
It will be placed under a cut, with a NSFW tag for younger viewers. If you don’t want to see
You… suddenly aren’t so sure if you can trust this boy. You’re going through so many conflicting thoughts so fast! First you’re excited, then let down, then excited again, and now you’re just… baffled. But then again, his concerns are privacy can be understood, as his business is indeed his business. You decide to shrug the matter off.
Shrugging off the awkwardly long and incredibly effortless handshake is a bit more difficult, but you manage to do so, as well. You take a look at the boy’s map for him, and you… um…
…What exactly is this? You’re practically staring at the scribbling of a madman! THIS IS SO OUTRAGEOUS!
And what kind of landmarks are these!? ‘Make a left at’… at… well, you’re not quite sure. Is that a dog, or a bike? Maybe both?
You give up trying to translate that nightmare and instead take another approach.
“Boy, why don’t you just tell me where your destination was, maybe I can help you find it from here.”
It’s some comfort that you are not alone when it comes to deciphering the rambling mapping abilities of your stoned superior. What makes Gamzee a good boss in some respects, (such as the freedom he presents you with, and the comfort in which you live,) leave something wanting in regards to the actual technical difficulties of doing your job.
You just about wince at his face though, it looks downright offended—while you cant blame him for that much. It’s downright impossible to push away the apologetic smile that spreads across your face as you take the sad attempt at a map from the poor man.
"I think this job is just about… bust. So I’d settle for helping me find my car… or a way back into the city now that I think about it." Your shoulders slump as you sigh. Gamzee of course won’t be mad that you gave up—heck, you wouldn’t be surprised if he thought you had the whole day off—but there is something inside you that is disappointed, purely for the fact that you screwed up yet again. You don’t need Gamzee to scold you for your failures, you can do that quite well on your own.
((Hey everyone, I just wanted to thank you all for following me and tell you that I will not be on for about three-four days. I am unsure if I’ll have internet in that time, so I won’t be able to update or continue RPs till I get back from skiing. This goes for both Tavros and Squarewave’s blogs. I’ll probably work on things while I’m gone, so I might come back with updates of some sort. See you on the flipside.))
"Don’t trouble yourself with apologies," You say, taking a quick gander at the young man’s appearance.
Nervous pales in comparison to what you would use to describe his actions. Paranoid is closer to the correct word. Why he is acting in his manner might have to do with the paint on his face and the blood. For a moment you wonder if you should stall for the police sirens to draw closer. After all, this all is rather suspicious. A man, bloodied and dirty in that get up running at such a breakneck speed? Oh yes, nothing ominous at all about that, is there? Still… This stranger had paused to help you up. To apologize despite the very clear need to abscond.
You decide to take a gamble, reaching for his hand. While you allow him to help to you your feet, the decision has been made to help him. Well… Help him clean up at least. So in that moment, you instead take his wrist, inspecting any injuries.
"Quite the scratch you have there, friend."
You expected to help him up and be on your way. It’s not like it’s a strange thing to assume, but clearly the wrong thing as he hasn’t let go of your hand.
Run. Hide. Get away. Be safe. Leave.
Your mind is screaming in time with the rapid thump of your heart. There is no control over the way your ears flick in the direction of every oncoming sound. You lick your lips, and they taste like paint. Even that much can’t comfort you.
"R-ran into a wall." You cast your eyes around once more in a futile attempt to see past all the brick walls and surrounding scenery. "Sir, I really do need to go. I’m in a hurry." You could push him out of the way. Kick him with your robotic legs, or punch him hard enough and you could probably kill him. The idea makes you ill. Even more so for the fact that you find yourself contemplating it.
Without thinking, you look down at the scraped hands, shredded skin under a layer of blood were staring back up at you. It’s enough to give your stomach one last painful lurch that had you on all fours and emptying it out. Blood never sat well with you, your own blood even less so.
Normally, walking back to your place isn’t such an adventure. You enjoy the exercise and potentially running into a new face. However, you do not realize that this would be literal as a young man turns the block and right into your path. Before you can even react, you find that your backside has met cold pavement. Honestly you are more surprised than actually hurt, though the sting still remains. Now that you think about it, you sort of feel like you had been run over by a stampeding bull.
Looking up at the stranger that is, presumably, addressing you, this seems to be exactly what has happened. He seems incredibly flustered and something must be on his mind for him to carry such an expression. Well you most certainly can’t have that.
"I’m fine. No harm done," you say with a soft expression. Now you simply need to get back on your feet.
Everything about you screams ‘NERVOUS!’, from the way your eyes dart about, to how often you scratch at your face, smearing your skull paint into a grey and red mess. Your hands still burn, wet from each blood droplet bubbling to the surface, and irritated from all the dirt and paint keeps getting into the scrapes, but it’s the last thing you’re thinking about.
Your thoughts return to the throb of sirens, and the way it’s matching time with your heart beat, and to the man in front of you that could so easily identify you in a court room.
Horns cut though the air as you swing your head from side to side, as if scared that the police are ready to step out of the aether and descend upon you. You need to move, and more quick.
"Dreadful s-sorry, I never watch where I-I’m going, here-" You wipe your hand off on your vest, staining the fabric dark. Only once it’s semi presentable you hold the shaking appendage out to the stranger.
"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Sounds accost you from all around. The thump of your heart, the harsh clap of steel on stone, and the painful wail of sirens fill your ears like a chaotic symphony built out of your own fear. How you manage to place yourself in these situations, you’ll never know, and the flow of adrenaline that filled your body hardly allows for all that much pondering.
A job had gone south. Not Texas south, Antarctica south. So far south that you have a very good look at all the penguins wondering just what the hell you’re doing in their territory and- HOLY FUCK THAT’S A WALL!
You feel the skin on your hands tear when they hit the rough brick, all but killing your momentum. However, stopping is not an option, neither encroaching sirens, or your own frantic mind will allow it, so you keep going. You need to get out, safe, back home where you can wipe the sticky face paint from your skin and pretend that the repetitive whine of alarms outside your walls hasn’t a thing to do with you.
You careen around a corner, straight into another obstacle, but this one isn’t firmly attached to the ground. It’s soft, much more delicate, and currently on the ground after having the physical equivalent of a brick wall slamming into him at only slightly less than full pelt. Every part of your brain screams at you to keep going, but your conscience weighs more heavily than your fear.
You crouch over the stranger, worry painted over your features (under the far more literal paint) as you check to make sure that you didn’t leave any lasting damage. “Oh my god, I’m sorry, are you- are you alright?”
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