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let me breathe check destroy & upset
[ His jaw is stiff, and the rusty taste of blood is a fitting welcome back into the realm of consciousness. A part of him already knows he doesn't want to be awake, that he would have been better off staying unconscious— better off dead than whatever situation he is awakening to.
He can't remember but he also remembers just about everything necessary to know he wants too be dead. Or, rather, he should want to be dead. For better or for worse, Tartaglia has always been a little bit of a difficult roach to kill. This time, however, the alarm bells are going off because he fucked up. If he's walking up confused, in pain and with no recollection yet as to where he is out how he got there, it's bad. It's fucking bad news, and he should be scared shirtless because no one leaves assassins alive that fail in their mission. They can't be trusted to be in turned, they can't be trusted to be returned loose. The only option to deal with an assassin that tails to kill their target is to kill them.
So... why...?
The smells of the area fill the alpha's nose quickly, and the rancid smell of stale blood causes the tiny man to crack open one eye, the other stinging with blood and immediately causing him to squeeze it back shut. Any attempt to wipe the blood from his eye is futile as he finds his hands bound tightly with no chance of slipping out of.
As his vision slowly comes back into focus and he's finally able to open his other eye with the blood no longer actively irritating the eye continually, he slowly glances around without moving an inch. Keeping his head rested where it is, he breathes shallowly in case there's anyone around, not wanting to immediately alert a watcher that he's awake if there's is one before he had an idea of what his surroundings are.
Looks like some kind of cell, leaving enough light for him to tell weekdays really going on but... The dim light outside the cell lingering the floorwag at least sideways that this isn't done place he was dumped in to rot in.
Not yet, anyway.
A slow hiss escapes the assassin as the muscles burn from every small movement in he makes. He feels in like he was hot by a tank, but he's pretty sure nothing that big was even around before he blacked out. Someone had hit him with something, is his guess.
Not that he can remember any of that. All he knows he fucked up, he just can't remember how he did that yet, either.
He's guessing this is his target's doing. What kind of suck fuck keeps people who are out to put a bullet through your head around afterwards, anyway? His target... was mafioso, he remembers. Makes even less sense, what would a make his want to keep him around for? He imagines the guy would get a kick out of scattering his body parts off a cliff or in the streets than keeping him in a dingy cage.
Fuck, he doesn't like this, and everything hurts like a bitch too much too even think about trying to go anywhere just yet. Clearly the only thing left to do is...
... remain here pissed and miserable and sulk about it. ]
He can't remember but he also remembers just about everything necessary to know he wants too be dead. Or, rather, he should want to be dead. For better or for worse, Tartaglia has always been a little bit of a difficult roach to kill. This time, however, the alarm bells are going off because he fucked up. If he's walking up confused, in pain and with no recollection yet as to where he is out how he got there, it's bad. It's fucking bad news, and he should be scared shirtless because no one leaves assassins alive that fail in their mission. They can't be trusted to be in turned, they can't be trusted to be returned loose. The only option to deal with an assassin that tails to kill their target is to kill them.
So... why...?
The smells of the area fill the alpha's nose quickly, and the rancid smell of stale blood causes the tiny man to crack open one eye, the other stinging with blood and immediately causing him to squeeze it back shut. Any attempt to wipe the blood from his eye is futile as he finds his hands bound tightly with no chance of slipping out of.
As his vision slowly comes back into focus and he's finally able to open his other eye with the blood no longer actively irritating the eye continually, he slowly glances around without moving an inch. Keeping his head rested where it is, he breathes shallowly in case there's anyone around, not wanting to immediately alert a watcher that he's awake if there's is one before he had an idea of what his surroundings are.
Looks like some kind of cell, leaving enough light for him to tell weekdays really going on but... The dim light outside the cell lingering the floorwag at least sideways that this isn't done place he was dumped in to rot in.
Not yet, anyway.
A slow hiss escapes the assassin as the muscles burn from every small movement in he makes. He feels in like he was hot by a tank, but he's pretty sure nothing that big was even around before he blacked out. Someone had hit him with something, is his guess.
Not that he can remember any of that. All he knows he fucked up, he just can't remember how he did that yet, either.
He's guessing this is his target's doing. What kind of suck fuck keeps people who are out to put a bullet through your head around afterwards, anyway? His target... was mafioso, he remembers. Makes even less sense, what would a make his want to keep him around for? He imagines the guy would get a kick out of scattering his body parts off a cliff or in the streets than keeping him in a dingy cage.
Fuck, he doesn't like this, and everything hurts like a bitch too much too even think about trying to go anywhere just yet. Clearly the only thing left to do is...
... remain here pissed and miserable and sulk about it. ]