[ Another curt nod before he's peering up and over the crumbling mortar of the window in the half blown to hell warehouse they are in. He manages to call a couple of shots, too few in the scheme of things, before he can't just call them. He's good at it, no doubt, but he's also good at killing. He doesn't always need a weapon to do it.
Sometimes his fists do just fine. More than once he's had to use them after running out, knife wrenched away from him too, and all he had left were his fists and determination.
Here, he's picking his shots as carefully as he can. They don't have the ammo to spare for missed ones. He can smell the chemicals opening up in the small space they are in, and coughs, trying not to breathe in too deep. One shot. One kill. He drags the bandanna he keeps tied around his neck up around his mouth to try and stave off the acrid scent, but he still feels sick at the cloying aftertaste left in his mouth from the air. Another shot and he's empty with his rifle.
Dammit. God damn it. ]
Rifles out. Fran---[ He's reaching for .45's holster when he catches the glint of something else. Through the chemicals making the air around them sting his eyes and throat, he manages to---shit. He shifts before he finishes explaining a damn thing to Frank, moves before really processing anything else. He hears the sound of the rpg going off when he's already tackling his friend to the ground.
The assholes firing it might have had shitty aim enough to where it didn't hit them dead on, or send the roof collapsing onto the both of them. But it was enough that they probably think some other asshole is smiling down on them for it. It hits just outside the window they are near, hearing going to nothing, shrill ringing, and muffled shouts that sound vaguely familiar. It takes him too long to realize that he's not holding onto Frank anymore.
No, he's on his back. Yeah, that's what. His equilibrium is off, and it's twisting him up. He's having trouble breathing again, but this time it's from the wind getting knocked out of him. He starts trying to pat himself down, realizing his helmet must have gotten dislodged somehow. He coughs, and drags a ragged breath in. ]
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Sometimes his fists do just fine. More than once he's had to use them after running out, knife wrenched away from him too, and all he had left were his fists and determination.
Here, he's picking his shots as carefully as he can. They don't have the ammo to spare for missed ones. He can smell the chemicals opening up in the small space they are in, and coughs, trying not to breathe in too deep. One shot. One kill. He drags the bandanna he keeps tied around his neck up around his mouth to try and stave off the acrid scent, but he still feels sick at the cloying aftertaste left in his mouth from the air. Another shot and he's empty with his rifle.
Dammit. God damn it. ]
Rifles out. Fran---[ He's reaching for .45's holster when he catches the glint of something else. Through the chemicals making the air around them sting his eyes and throat, he manages to---shit. He shifts before he finishes explaining a damn thing to Frank, moves before really processing anything else. He hears the sound of the rpg going off when he's already tackling his friend to the ground.
The assholes firing it might have had shitty aim enough to where it didn't hit them dead on, or send the roof collapsing onto the both of them. But it was enough that they probably think some other asshole is smiling down on them for it. It hits just outside the window they are near, hearing going to nothing, shrill ringing, and muffled shouts that sound vaguely familiar. It takes him too long to realize that he's not holding onto Frank anymore.
No, he's on his back. Yeah, that's what. His equilibrium is off, and it's twisting him up. He's having trouble breathing again, but this time it's from the wind getting knocked out of him. He starts trying to pat himself down, realizing his helmet must have gotten dislodged somehow. He coughs, and drags a ragged breath in. ]
I---Castle? What---what happened?