Deadshot. Not Lawton. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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maskormenacelogs2014-02-21 04:08 pm
goodbadimthguywiththgun) wrote in maskormenacelogs2014-02-21 04:08 pm
Entry tags:
But listen to the color of your dreams
WHO: SCANDAL SAVAGE(wechoose), BANE(breakyou), and FLOYD LAWTON (goodbadimthguywiththgun)
WHERE: Starts in the Museum of Weapons Artifacts and History. In your dreams. (No, really. Actually maybe not...or maybe it was?)
WHEN: FORWARDDATED TO 2/25, in the afternoon
WHAT: Secret Six Three Reunion
WARNINGS: Cuss-words! Mental-health stuff! Existentialist angst! Punching! Really, really, really dark humor! Mention of Wondy in a Bikini! Spoilers for Cats in the Cradle (an arc in Secret Six)! Mention of child-death!
[So. The latest in Floyd's life.
After having a shady-ass meeting over some shady-ass lunch with the shady-ass Pengy, the assassin began working his job as an assistant curator; you could say what you would about Floyd, but he definitely knew guns. And he didn't mind researching weapons he didn't recognize immediately either. As for the other baggage that came with the job--administering stuff, organizing schedules and exhibits, acting as liason, making sure the gift-shop had enough tacky t-shirts, blah blah blah...
What very few people knew was that Floyd did have some business in his blood--his father made his fortune in realty and his ma came from a family of bankers. So, he could do the work. But, the killer preferred to keep away from that. Keep his nose to a grind-stone and get busy. Nothing that needed fancy-ass talk.
This, in addition to the stress of getting acclimated to this new environment (not to mention returning to government work) wasn't doing Floyd any good. No. The killer-for-hire already wasn't sleeping, not since he'd been ported in, and now, with this job, he had even less of a reason to sleep proper. Instead, the killer took to working at the museum--researching when he should have been sleeping, and barely ambling through the day as he'd attempt to keep things organized. Having spent a lot of his adult-life operating in Gotham, there was a threshold with which the killer-for-hire was capable of denying himself sleep. So, he managed in this odd, new schedule for a few days. Sure, he started to find himself believing that chairs were going to get him, but he was still standing and able to work.
It wasn't until Tuesday of that week that, while looking through texts about swords to organize an exhibit around a piece that was coming in soon, in a rather cramped closet of an office with only a couple of chairs and a desk, the killer-for-hire's body shut-down and he had an out of body experience, suddenly watching himself read. The sight of himself, buried in the tomes and eyes heavily-lidded, inspired something unspeakable from the assassin's deepest, innermost parts.
What a miserable asshole, he couldn't help but think. Dressed up in his leather jacket like he thinks he's some rebel like James Dean. When he knows better. Oughta be fitting himself for a dog collar. This--this sight right here could make for a double-plus good cover for 1984. Just needs him to be screaming in agony, with a boot smashed in his jaw. For eternity. With nothing to live for, but pointless things like this.
Just pathetic. No. Not even that. Not worthy of pity. This sort of thing just inspired disgust. Wasn't it just mere days, nearly a week and then some, when Floyd was running, freer with his...whatevers, the Secret Six? How quickly he'd broken down, reverted back to being just a brick in the wall. And about accepted it.
...and why not? What else could be done?
As the assassin watched himself work, he stole his pack of cigs from himself and found it was almost empty. One cig from home left over. Floyd slowly lit it up and walked out into the marbled hallway, hoping nobody he knew would see him.]
wechoose), BANE(breakyou), and FLOYD LAWTON (goodbadimthguywiththgun)WHERE: Starts in the Museum of Weapons Artifacts and History. In your dreams. (No, really. Actually maybe not...or maybe it was?)
WHEN: FORWARDDATED TO 2/25, in the afternoon
WHAT: Secret
WARNINGS: Cuss-words! Mental-health stuff! Existentialist angst! Punching! Really, really, really dark humor! Mention of Wondy in a Bikini! Spoilers for Cats in the Cradle (an arc in Secret Six)! Mention of child-death!
[So. The latest in Floyd's life.
After having a shady-ass meeting over some shady-ass lunch with the shady-ass Pengy, the assassin began working his job as an assistant curator; you could say what you would about Floyd, but he definitely knew guns. And he didn't mind researching weapons he didn't recognize immediately either. As for the other baggage that came with the job--administering stuff, organizing schedules and exhibits, acting as liason, making sure the gift-shop had enough tacky t-shirts, blah blah blah...
What very few people knew was that Floyd did have some business in his blood--his father made his fortune in realty and his ma came from a family of bankers. So, he could do the work. But, the killer preferred to keep away from that. Keep his nose to a grind-stone and get busy. Nothing that needed fancy-ass talk.
This, in addition to the stress of getting acclimated to this new environment (not to mention returning to government work) wasn't doing Floyd any good. No. The killer-for-hire already wasn't sleeping, not since he'd been ported in, and now, with this job, he had even less of a reason to sleep proper. Instead, the killer took to working at the museum--researching when he should have been sleeping, and barely ambling through the day as he'd attempt to keep things organized. Having spent a lot of his adult-life operating in Gotham, there was a threshold with which the killer-for-hire was capable of denying himself sleep. So, he managed in this odd, new schedule for a few days. Sure, he started to find himself believing that chairs were going to get him, but he was still standing and able to work.
It wasn't until Tuesday of that week that, while looking through texts about swords to organize an exhibit around a piece that was coming in soon, in a rather cramped closet of an office with only a couple of chairs and a desk, the killer-for-hire's body shut-down and he had an out of body experience, suddenly watching himself read. The sight of himself, buried in the tomes and eyes heavily-lidded, inspired something unspeakable from the assassin's deepest, innermost parts.
What a miserable asshole, he couldn't help but think. Dressed up in his leather jacket like he thinks he's some rebel like James Dean. When he knows better. Oughta be fitting himself for a dog collar. This--this sight right here could make for a double-plus good cover for 1984. Just needs him to be screaming in agony, with a boot smashed in his jaw. For eternity. With nothing to live for, but pointless things like this.
Just pathetic. No. Not even that. Not worthy of pity. This sort of thing just inspired disgust. Wasn't it just mere days, nearly a week and then some, when Floyd was running, freer with his...whatevers, the Secret Six? How quickly he'd broken down, reverted back to being just a brick in the wall. And about accepted it.
...and why not? What else could be done?
As the assassin watched himself work, he stole his pack of cigs from himself and found it was almost empty. One cig from home left over. Floyd slowly lit it up and walked out into the marbled hallway, hoping nobody he knew would see him.]
no subject
Making bold statements is unwise in this place. There are too many unknowns, and they do not know what disciplines will be sent in response to disobedience. So, there have been careful steps. Bane and Scandal are out in effort to gain information, to perhaps enlighten themselves on their surroundings.
What they find is something else entirely.
When he sees him, Bane pauses. It is the smoke which reveals him above all, and Bane's voice carries across the short distance between them. ]
...Floyd Lawton.
no subject
Typically, when Floyd dreamt, he saw nothing. Not black. Not 'nothing-in-particular' random shit. Just nothing. And he found himself preferring it that way, instead of dealing with people he was convinced that he may never see again.
Accepting this as just an illusion, he makes the mistake of continuing to use his mouth-piece.] I hear most guys dream 'bout judging bikini-contests with Wonder Woman and them other female Leaguers in 'em, insteada their teammates or whatever popping-in and catching them make lousy life-decisions.
no subject
You are awake. [ He states bluntly. ] Your fantasies sound distasteful; I would not appear in one.
/releases a majestic teal deer (you do not have to match the length!)
Nothing and nobody was at the desk.
Dammit. Floyd hated it when his head played tricks on him like this. Out of frustration, the assassin sits himself on the ground and furiously puffs, attempting to make sense of everything. After steadily increasing his chances of getting lung-cancer, the assassin tells his teammates, whom he's not entirely certain are really there,] I just came in 'round the 13th. Didn't do nothing on Valentimes, registered to work for some guys, and started working this job they assigned me to. [He hates it when his head does horrid things like this to him.
The shootist knows well that Scandal and Bane couldn't be here. They couldn't. The killer had never had a decent thing like this happen. Things tended to just find new ways of becoming crappy. Not--
The killer-for-hire stands up and tells the pair,] Prove to me you're really here. You're who you look like. That I ain't hallucinating this.
no subject
Very well.
[ Bane strides forward, without hesitation, and he punches Lawton in the face. ]
You are not hallucinating.
[ It isn't full strength, but any means, but it will bruise. That way if he leaves, the next day he will have evidence of his meeting on his cheek. ]
no subject
Oh. Oh God. They really were here. And now they knew he registered.]
I--[For a moment, Floyd tries to find his footing, both literally and metaphorically; he tries to think of the various reasons why he signed up (for the rep, was it? out of hopelessness? for the hell of it?) But, at the time, nothing makes as much sense as it did when he made the decision.
...but did it really matter? In a steady tone, he tells them,] Yeah. Sis, [ said with a small nod to Savage's heir.] Bane, [said with a slight nod to the big guy.] I did. [And, with a quirk of the eyebrow, he adds, in a feigned tone of nonchalance,] Guessing by that tone you guys didn't.
no subject
He turns back to Deadshot, and his lips form a frown. ]
No. I find it as distasteful as the content of your dreams.
These men and women seek to enslave you.
[ He will not have it. He will not be a prisoner. Not again. ]
/releases yet another majestic teal deer (still don't have to match the length!)
Without much thinking involved, Floyd takes a step back, closer into the office; of course, he agrees with everything that they're saying. You'd have to have just two brain-cells to deny any of this.
He fully turns, and sits in his desk, to ruminate further. How long were they here? Why couldn't he find them? Why didn't he try harder to look for them? It was tempting to blame some external cause: the government (for housing him away from the Six), the Penguin (for neglecting to tell him the Six were here), etc., etc., etc. But, frankly, the killer understands that all of this was his own doing. He dug this grave for himself. Did these stupid things to himself. Decided to do this on his own.
Had he known, he wouldn't have signed up. Wouldn't have made an ass of himself and returned to the leash.
And, now, it was too late to undo that.
The assassin wipes his forehead as he stares holes into his books; finally, he comes to the very sensible conclusion of tearing into them and throwing them around the room. For a man like himself, destruction was his comfort-food. After punting a book about scimitars out the window, he resumes a calm façade and says, in a passion-less tone,] Damn.
[After a pause, he succinctly asks,] The rest of 'em. Zelchin. Merkel. Jeannette. [With some visible hesitation, he adds,] Blake. They here too?
no subject
No. There are no others. Unless they have kept themselves hidden, as you did.
Most would be too boastful for that to be plausible.
[ Merkel, for instance.
Bane has admired that trait in Deadshot before. Of all of their mismatched company, Lawton was not one for the dramatic -- something even Scandal Savage is prone towards. ]
no subject
Floyd folds his hands together, places his legs on his now empty desk, leans back real easy, and tells the two,] It was after we split-it, Scooby Doo style. Blake--Catman ditched us before we could get paid for a job, t'kill the guys that took and mighta killed his son. Sis--you, me, th'Doll, and Zelchin chased after to fetch 'im. [Then, he looks up at the ceiling, as if there was something new there he hadn't noticed.] Then, we went to Italy. Saw th'number Blake did to one of his kid's kidnappers. Or, what was left of th' guy. And it was too much for Zelchin. The girl screwed up, an' we got stuck in Africa, nowhere near Blake; she picked up fights, then started cryin' 'bout maybe giving her Pap cancer. [And, he looks at the pair, once again, with an odd confidence, ] So, I saw her oncologist and asked, t'make sure. Guy said it was possible, so I corrected him. Told him it wasn't. [At gunpoint.] And told him to spread th'word to Zelchin. Then, I remember getting outta the office, and that's it.
no subject
Lawton does not know of their failure, or how they nearly came apart in Hell.
Perhaps that is for the best. It isn't wise to keep the future from them, and Bane will not resist when asked. However, it is merely honesty that compels him. He does not feel as if Lawton would benefit from knowing about a future which he cannot change. ]
More came after, which Scandal Savage and myself remember.
[ He glances at Scandal, as if to ask her permission. ]
no subject
Does it really matter if he believed them or not? Not really. No. Floyd gets up, and stands near the pair, once again.] Alright. Future...guys. [After some consideration, he adds,] So. Now what do we do? I ain't doin' a repeat of Devil's Island. I ain't workin' against you guys again. But I can't drop this job yet. I already got no professional rep here and ditchin' it too soon'd kill it.
no subject
[ Bane will not enslave a man, or demand anything of him. Deadshot was an old comrade, but this is an entirely separate battleground; a different mission.
The man can make his choice. ]
I admire your effort as an honest man, but such things are not possible for myself; I fight for more.
There will be a place for you, should you wish it.
no subject
On the one hand, benefits could be good for them if he stayed on the government’s good side and got them intel. And he’d carried out deception before—hell, he once had Gotham convinced he was their hero.
On the other, government had all the cards and knew shit about them. Knew about the bomb in his head, where they lived, where they worked, tattooed them, installed communicators in all of them…]
Could be dangerous. High chance of death. [Hell. That just made it more appealing.] Alright. What th’hell. Give it a shot. [Whatever despair this man had given in to had dissipated. What he had once lost with his separation from the Six in some weeks, he had regained in mere minutes.
They were still stuck in this weirdass alternate America, but, for the moment, that didn’t matter. Because they’d be getting out soon enough.]