[ some people don't get high on their first exposure to noxious fumes; it happens later, when the brain registers on the second hit that it knows what this shit is meant to do now, and gleefully succumbs to being fucking wasted.
the hangover comes before the rush. felix wants to feel nothing, and sam is gliding from floor to fucking floor, suddenly in tune with everything and anything, his awareness like piano wire pulled just to the brink of breaking. broken lights, mirrors, the smell of exorbitantly expensive cologne mixed with rum and tequila, the weight of an unconscious criminal slung over his shoulder. the unnamed sniper doesn't come to put a hole in sam's fucking skull during the few minutes that sam spends in technicolor, and, as he's maneuvering through and out into the blissful stench of this foreign hellscape, sam tips his bloodied face to the moons hanging above him and shutters his eyes.
out of his fucking mind, he thinks.
what else is new?
(what happens next is: he trades his mark for six months' rent. interrogation isn't his style; he leaves that to an affable-looking sociopath with rubber gloves snapped up to his fucking elbow, and casually gets the name of whoever else in this latrine of a city would've wanted their half-baked crimelord dead.
contacts three-times removed and two-times dead later, sam finds the bank account that felix was supposed to have his reward wired to, and puts in exactly one month's worth of rent and the amount to buy precisely two cocktails in a shitty downtown bar in said account.
an attached message, in Portuguese: he who barks the loudest. no explanation; just an admission and an accusation. "you got to me, you motherfucker.") ]
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the hangover comes before the rush. felix wants to feel nothing, and sam is gliding from floor to fucking floor, suddenly in tune with everything and anything, his awareness like piano wire pulled just to the brink of breaking. broken lights, mirrors, the smell of exorbitantly expensive cologne mixed with rum and tequila, the weight of an unconscious criminal slung over his shoulder. the unnamed sniper doesn't come to put a hole in sam's fucking skull during the few minutes that sam spends in technicolor, and, as he's maneuvering through and out into the blissful stench of this foreign hellscape, sam tips his bloodied face to the moons hanging above him and shutters his eyes.
out of his fucking mind, he thinks.
what else is new?
(what happens next is: he trades his mark for six months' rent. interrogation isn't his style; he leaves that to an affable-looking sociopath with rubber gloves snapped up to his fucking elbow, and casually gets the name of whoever else in this latrine of a city would've wanted their half-baked crimelord dead.
contacts three-times removed and two-times dead later, sam finds the bank account that felix was supposed to have his reward wired to, and puts in exactly one month's worth of rent and the amount to buy precisely two cocktails in a shitty downtown bar in said account.
an attached message, in Portuguese: he who barks the loudest. no explanation; just an admission and an accusation. "you got to me, you motherfucker.") ]