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'This is fucked.'
That's all you can think as you slink back into the alley, careful to keep from making any unnecessary noise during your retreat, your best bet is to hide and hope that Hawthorne gets back with a car before someone rats you out or you get found by complete accident. You take a few moments as you crouch behind a dumpster to lick your fingertips and get to work rubbing the drying viscous blood from under your eye. Maybe you pushed yourself too far in the process of shifting your conscience through the city, before it's all come to you like trickles from a stream, the difference this time is that you stuck your head in the proverbial river. A few wet blinks clear away the feeling of a gunked up eye but you're positive it's still bright red and the people getting contacted probably have 'guy with a fucked up eye' as the main identifier.
The voice from earlier brings your attention right back to the goons standing in the road.
"Alright, Donnie. We got a few of our guys on it now."
"And the boss isn't gonna find out?"
"No, Donnie. Unless you go and tell him something he don't need to know."
A few moments of pregnant silence hang in the air.
"Donnie? I don't like it when you don't answer me. You ain't gonna say nothing to the boss right?"
"Of course not!" The voice replies with an echo of fear.
"Good. Because we both fucked up in that café earlier and you know what that means."
"It means we both get punished.."
"Exactly, and the last guy who pissed off Cobblepot ended up getting fed to uh.. to sea lions! You don't want that do you, Donnie?"
"N-no!"
"I won't let that happen, let's just find these two clowns and rough em up. Break their legs maybe, nothing crazy. Just to send a message."
"Okay, yeah good..."
"Donnie, what is it? I see you squirmin."
"Can I?"
"Oh for fuck sake. Yes, Donnie."
You close your eyes and fight back another wave of migraine pain. Cobblepot, The Penguin. His goons are watching the streets around the club, but why?
You have no time to mull it over as foot steps begin to click approaching your alley. You hold your breath and remain still as a photograph until another sound echoes off the old brick. A zipper, splashing liquid, and a contented sigh of relief. This has to be a joke.
>Hold your position, there is no reason to blow your hiding spot now. Not until you get word from Hawthorne.
>This is probably the only chance you're going to get if you want to squeeze answers out of one of these guys. Step out with your gun and catch him with his pants down.
>Getting some answers from this mook would be nice but you don't wanna pull the gun if you aren't going to use it. Make some light noises and see if you can draw him in and wrestle him down.
>Write-In
That's all you can think as you slink back into the alley, careful to keep from making any unnecessary noise during your retreat, your best bet is to hide and hope that Hawthorne gets back with a car before someone rats you out or you get found by complete accident. You take a few moments as you crouch behind a dumpster to lick your fingertips and get to work rubbing the drying viscous blood from under your eye. Maybe you pushed yourself too far in the process of shifting your conscience through the city, before it's all come to you like trickles from a stream, the difference this time is that you stuck your head in the proverbial river. A few wet blinks clear away the feeling of a gunked up eye but you're positive it's still bright red and the people getting contacted probably have 'guy with a fucked up eye' as the main identifier.
The voice from earlier brings your attention right back to the goons standing in the road.
"Alright, Donnie. We got a few of our guys on it now."
"And the boss isn't gonna find out?"
"No, Donnie. Unless you go and tell him something he don't need to know."
A few moments of pregnant silence hang in the air.
"Donnie? I don't like it when you don't answer me. You ain't gonna say nothing to the boss right?"
"Of course not!" The voice replies with an echo of fear.
"Good. Because we both fucked up in that café earlier and you know what that means."
"It means we both get punished.."
"Exactly, and the last guy who pissed off Cobblepot ended up getting fed to uh.. to sea lions! You don't want that do you, Donnie?"
"N-no!"
"I won't let that happen, let's just find these two clowns and rough em up. Break their legs maybe, nothing crazy. Just to send a message."
"Okay, yeah good..."
"Donnie, what is it? I see you squirmin."
"Can I?"
"Oh for fuck sake. Yes, Donnie."
You close your eyes and fight back another wave of migraine pain. Cobblepot, The Penguin. His goons are watching the streets around the club, but why?
You have no time to mull it over as foot steps begin to click approaching your alley. You hold your breath and remain still as a photograph until another sound echoes off the old brick. A zipper, splashing liquid, and a contented sigh of relief. This has to be a joke.
>Hold your position, there is no reason to blow your hiding spot now. Not until you get word from Hawthorne.
>This is probably the only chance you're going to get if you want to squeeze answers out of one of these guys. Step out with your gun and catch him with his pants down.
>Getting some answers from this mook would be nice but you don't wanna pull the gun if you aren't going to use it. Make some light noises and see if you can draw him in and wrestle him down.
>Write-In
