Post by Rictor on Nov 17, 2006 20:34:27 GMT -5
Rictor had only been free from The Right for a month, and he had already done more than he ever had before he had been captured. When the police shot and caught him again, he thought his life was over. But the idiots had done little to keep him restrained, obviously having no prior experience with Homo Superior.
Rictor ripped the bandages from his stomach and threw them into the dumpster. He was standing in an alley behind a place called Frank's Drug Store in Chicago. It had taken him two weeks since escaping from the hospital to get this far, with his new bike impounded and his old stolen car long behind him.
There were times when he thought he should have stayed in the hospital longer, the pain in his stomach was so strong. But he had laid in that bed for a week, their operations finished and their drugs coursing through his system, and he had had enough. In the days since, he struggled to find clean bandages, usually nabbing a box of them from places like the one he was behind currently. But at times, he shoved dirty rags or bathroom towels underneath his stolen shirt to keep the blood from seeping through.
He was shitting needles and puking bile and blood, especially after anytime he was forced to run - which he did every time a police car or officer came into view. He finished putting the new bandages on and tossed the box to the ground, then pulled his shirt down over the white strips of cloth. He had stolen a shirt and a pair of pants off a clotheline back in Nevada, then another set in Wyoming after the first became bloodied. He was still wearing the second set, and the dirt and sweat stains were becoming all too noticeable.
His shoes were a size too small, but there were fewer opportunities to grab free footwear. This pair had come from a sleeping man a train station - the idiot had kicked them off, then thrown his coat over his body and fallen to sleep. Rictor had sat across from him the whole time, watching his eyes droop and his breathing slow, then snatched the shoes as soon as he could. Dirty clothes were one thing, but to go shoeless always drew attention. Ninguna camisa, ningunos zapatos, ningún servicio.
Just then, Rictor had an idea about how to get some new clothes. A whole lot of new clothes, along with some other...helpful items.
Rictor laughed alound and leaned back against the brick wall behind him, then rubbed his dirty hands over his widely grinning face. To anyone walking by, he looked very much the part of a crazed homeless man.
Rictor ripped the bandages from his stomach and threw them into the dumpster. He was standing in an alley behind a place called Frank's Drug Store in Chicago. It had taken him two weeks since escaping from the hospital to get this far, with his new bike impounded and his old stolen car long behind him.
There were times when he thought he should have stayed in the hospital longer, the pain in his stomach was so strong. But he had laid in that bed for a week, their operations finished and their drugs coursing through his system, and he had had enough. In the days since, he struggled to find clean bandages, usually nabbing a box of them from places like the one he was behind currently. But at times, he shoved dirty rags or bathroom towels underneath his stolen shirt to keep the blood from seeping through.
He was shitting needles and puking bile and blood, especially after anytime he was forced to run - which he did every time a police car or officer came into view. He finished putting the new bandages on and tossed the box to the ground, then pulled his shirt down over the white strips of cloth. He had stolen a shirt and a pair of pants off a clotheline back in Nevada, then another set in Wyoming after the first became bloodied. He was still wearing the second set, and the dirt and sweat stains were becoming all too noticeable.
His shoes were a size too small, but there were fewer opportunities to grab free footwear. This pair had come from a sleeping man a train station - the idiot had kicked them off, then thrown his coat over his body and fallen to sleep. Rictor had sat across from him the whole time, watching his eyes droop and his breathing slow, then snatched the shoes as soon as he could. Dirty clothes were one thing, but to go shoeless always drew attention. Ninguna camisa, ningunos zapatos, ningún servicio.
Just then, Rictor had an idea about how to get some new clothes. A whole lot of new clothes, along with some other...helpful items.
Rictor laughed alound and leaned back against the brick wall behind him, then rubbed his dirty hands over his widely grinning face. To anyone walking by, he looked very much the part of a crazed homeless man.
