Callthecops — Roleplayer Guild

A tender hand softly stroked a muscled shoulder. A weary head rested on his bare chest. His arms wrapped around a slender frame, hidden beneath a thin white sheet. ”Promise you won’t leave me…” The figure whispered.

He stood at the edge of a dusty cliff, looking out over the abyss. Thin fingers traced the lattice of scars across his back. “Tell me that you love me.”

"I love you."

Tears rolled down from blue eyes, falling from a pale face, wracked with pain. He ran calloused fingers through long blonde hair. Lips trembled as broken cries escaped from the depths of a tormented heart; he could not hear a sound. Wet droplets fell against hardened skin. A tired fist beat weakly against a strong shoulder. “Please don’t leave me… Please don’t leave…”

Bodies lay dead on the ground strewn out all around the camp, peppered with bullet holes. Loose sand was scattered about by a gentle breeze. A woman looked up, watching as armed men shuffled around, tending to the liberated slaves. A rough, bearded man appeared in front of her, extending a bloodstained hand towards her. In that moment she knew she was finally safe.

A windswept man looked back at the slender frame, wrapped up in a white sheet. She was still crying, her head buried in a pillow meant for two. The man turned and reached for the door, a single tear falling from Immortal eyes.

He stood alone atop a tall pillar of red, desert stone, surrounded on all sides by empty space. Fog blanketed the bottomless pit which stretched out below. He pulled a golden watch from the pocket of his worn, dirty vest. He brought a finger to the latch, and opened the watch, looking down its empty face. There were no numbers or hands, just the face of beautiful young blonde. “Don’t leave me…” The phantom whispered.

The man stepped forward, his feet hanging over the edge, “I’m sorry.” Bento answered. He leaned forward and dropped down into the endless void.

“I love you.”

—Begin Day Two—

Bento reluctantly opened his eyes, taking in the dimly lit room as he tried to piece together where he was. A disturbance had brought him back into consciousness he noted, watching briefly as a tall, slender figure clothed herself before shutting his eyes again. He fell in and out of consciousness for the next few minutes as his body struggled to detoxify the various poisons he had consumed the night before. Through the haze he gained a vague picture of the scene unfolding; he was definitely the bedroom of his little apartment in the slums he realized. But how had he gotten there? Why did he feel like he’d been hit by a truck? What was this girl doing? She seemed to be getting ready to leave, a course of action that Bento was not entirely unfond of. It would give him less to worry about at least. He heard her walk outside and let out a sigh of release, giving up on his efforts to maintain any sense of awareness before passing out again.

When he finally awoke again, Bento groaned as he sat upright, clutching at his aching head. Sloppily climbing out of bed, the Immortal staggered into the bathroom and propped himself up on the sink. He turned on the faucet, and greedily sucked down as much water as he could drink, the first step to beating his hangover... Bento slowly sunk to the floor and sat back against the wall, resting for a moment before attempting the short crawl to the shower. Once at the edge of the tub, he removed his briefs and pulled himself up and into the shower.

Bracing himself for the stream of cold water, Bento leaned against the wall and turned the knob. An apartment in the slums afforded few luxuries, and water heaters were few and far between. It wasn’t like he was used to luxury, though. Bento welcomed the cold, as it tore through the hangover and forced him back to his senses. Dear God, what had happened last night? Had he dreamt last night? He muttered something under his breath as the cold water soaked his head. What was the meaning of this curse? He wondered, letting the water fall down his back and envelope his body. What was the meaning of this gift?

Why does it hurt to be alive?

---

Bento stepped out into the main room of the apartment, his bare feet carefully navigating around the shattered glass that still lay strewn about sections of the floor. There was a note on the table, tucked under the bottom half of what had once been a bottle of moonshine. The whole place smelled of alcohol and death. There was a dress lying on the ground and his shirt appeared to be missing, though his pants and boots were still safe in the other room. Bento picked up the note and read it aloud, “Bitchez Breww! –Lucy” There was a winky-face drawn next to her name. What the hell had he gone and done, he wondered? I just hope I didn’t finish in the wrong place…

He was ready to leave in just over twenty minutes, most of that time being dedicated to cleaning his gun. He had also taken time to pack up a black leather knapsack with all of the things he might need should he end up working with the Castalias. As he prepared to head over to the bar, Bento pulled on his vest and noticed an unexpected weight in one of the pockets and reached down to pull out his flask. Thank God it was miraculously full; he must have filled it up at the bar last night. They always said the best cure for a hangover was hair of the dog, he mused, tossing back about a shot’s worth. Before heading towards the door Bento quickly grabbed a handful of dried jerky from a container and put some in his pocket, holding on to the rest for immediate consumption. Throwing his pack over his shoulder and grabbing his rifle, the windcaller stepped outside.

It wasn’t long before Bento arrived at the Bitches Brew, immediately noticing how different the place looked during the daytime than it had at night. “A drink.” He said, approaching the bar and dropping his stuff at his feet and propping his rifle against the bar. “And not that rotgut shit you were serving last night…”

The last remark earned him a harsh glare from the bartender, but Bento got his drink just the same. It wasn’t so bad he thought, taking a sip of whatever liquid it was that constituted the Castalia’s higher-grade booze. “Where can I find Lucania?” Bento added, tossing Lucy’s note of invitation on the bar.

“I’ll take a look upstairs, sir.” The bartender replied, suddenly feeling a lot more cooperative.

“Mm.” Bento grunted, signaling for the man to go ahead. As the bartender walked off the Immortal took a look around the bar again, his eyes anchoring on a man who appeared to be some sort of low-level Castalia goon. Bento approached the goon’s table, taking in the man’s features and sizing him up. His nose had certainly been broken before, but he didn’t have the roughened look of a man who had lost very many fights. In Bento’s experience that generally meant someone hadn’t really been in many fair ones. “You’re wearing my sunglasses.” The windcaller said, now standing over the goon, interrupting whatever lame joke he had been telling his friend across the table.

“Oh yeah? Wells seein’ as weze Castalyas own dis place, way I see it is deeze sunglasses is mine, so how boutcha fuck off, buddy?” The goon retorted, clearly feeling proud of himself, as he looked over for approval from his friend across the table.

“You don’t want to do this.”

“Why da fuck is that, cazzo?” The goons stood up in unison, forcing Bento to take a step back.

“Because I’m about to count down from ten, and if I don’t have those sunglasses in my hands by the time I hit one, then I’m going to kill you…”

“10…” The goons looked at each other.

“9.”

“8.” Goon 1 signals for goon 2 to attack.

“7.” The second goon threw a sloppy right hook towards Bento’s face, a move that was easily ducked. On the up swing, Bento used the lift to place a powerful knee to the goon’s stomach, doubling the man over.

“6.” Bento grunted, grabbing the back of his attacker’s head and pushed him to the ground.

“5.” Bento stared back at the man still wearing his sunglasses, daring him to make a move.

“4…” The Castalia idiot drew a knife and thrust low, trying to drive it into Bento’s gut. The Immortal caught the goon’s wrist and twisted it behind the man’s back, driving him forward and bending him over a nearby table.

“3.” The man screamed in pain, slamming a hand down on the table to prevent himself from being doubled over. Bento saw his opportunity and swept the knife from the man’s hand and pinned the poor bastard’s hand to the table with it.

“2…” With both of the goon’s hands incapacitated, Bento reached around and grabbed the glasses of his face, dropping the man’s free hand as he did so.

“What the fuck!!” The goon shouted. “Ya fucking dead, you hear me, cazzo? Ya fuckin’ dead!” Bento walked back towards the bar, putting his sunglasses back on his face, and ignored the foolish man’s cries of pain.
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