You're going to hate and judge your whole life and leaving high school will not change a thing.
Whenever I feel melancholic I start writing for this. This isn't actually an update. It's more of a vignette or extra than anything else. There's a couple more I plan on writing. They're going to all be memories and they're going to serve to clarify some of the past events that have been extensively alluded to thus far. So now you know. Spoiler: Fragment 1 Kira was furious with herself. Her fingers were bruised and bleeding from her most recent outburst against an unsuspecting wall. Hughes was still crying. He'd been crying for hours. The rest of the battle monks were performing the normal, dispassionate sending ceremony to ensure their fallen comrade wouldn't return as an evil spirit. The whole scene felt disgusting. Erica spat into the dirt hoping it'd clear the painful metallic tang from her mouth. Hoping that she'd somehow no longer feel if she did something. But other than that she remained stark still, staring out over the field. A rather ungraceful bellow from Kira. She'd managed to hurt herself again. Erica couldn't help but scoff slightly. Before she'd even taken another breath Kira was in front of her, incensed. “What is it?” “....” “You want to say, 'I told you so.'?” Kira snarled, more and more beastly with each passing day, this one. “You want to say that he should've just backed off like you?” “I don't see what you're so angry about.” “I--” “It's not like you just lost your first friend.” Erica continued calmly. “It's not like you get to tell his family that they'll be bur-- rather, they won't be able to even bury their only son. It's not like you got to hear the news from the people who swore he was going to be taught to survive. It's not like you were told that this was gonna be a cinch. It's not like you couldn't even be there for him. No... I don't see what you're so angry about.” With that Erica turned and began walking. “I'm sorry...” She heard someone saying-- no-- whispering, as she stalked off in silence. Even her footfalls felt light, like she might just float away. “Dead.” She heard her own voice express the idea, felt her own lips give it shape, but it seemed so foreign to her. “Tommy's dead.” That same feeling of disconnection from her own actions. There was nothing for it. Nothing that could be done now. Not that she could've ever made a difference. Not that she was even involved anymore. Erica sighed. She'd been walking aimlessly for a while by now and found herself on an unfamiliar street. She didn't recognize any of the roadsigns or storefronts. She'd normally have felt worried. Scared, even. But now there was nothing. She just took it in stride and kept walking. That's what legs are made for. Put one foot in front of the other and the body will follow, it's called walking. Do it faster and it's running. Before she knew it Erica was running. She still had no idea where she was. She still had no idea what she was doing or why she was doing it. She smiled. Another seemingly involuntary action. Same for the tears. She kept running through it all. What felt like miles and miles later she was out of breath, stopped and aching from her exertions, but she was in a familiar neighborhood. “Now's as bad a time as any.” She said aloud, her own thoughts being drowned out by her heaving breaths and pounding blood. Then she put her right foot in front of her left and then her left in front of her right and started walking to the nearest house. A house she'd been to many times before. Only those times she wasn't alone. She stood for several minutes at the door, almost waiting for someone to come and tell her she was wrong. No such luck. She reached out to knock and then withdrew her hand. She reached out and withdrew three times before the door opened. Tommy's mother had seen her. “Erica! You look awful! Has something happened?” She exclaimed. “Is your husband home?” Erica asked. Her voice as dead as her bleary eyes. With a moment's hesitation the middle aged woman answered that he was. Erica dropped head. “Can I come in?”
This has been happening since before you were born. This is industry, this is America, this **** is cash or credit, check or debit. If you don't like it nobody cares. Come to terms with the world or change it, but don't just talk. Talk is cheap and money talks. You can't beat the cash cow corporation's currency with crying. You've gotta get up and move. You've gotta get your head on straight and take it from the windows to the walls. You've gotta take this **** and move yourself to the beat. Nobody hears the words unless you spit 'em. Gotta rap at the establishment, rap at the streets, rap at your parents, rap at your peers. If you can't rap then you can't dance. And if your friends don't dance, well if they don't dance then they're no friends of mine.
No sense in getting worked up over it. You know a guy who will probably get this done for you. Probably. He's not exactly a contact and you don't really have friends so when describing him to people you just say that he's a guy you know. He likes you, probably not Platonic-like, because you ended up saving his life during one job. It was a less than stellar moment in your career, getting a civilian involved, but your perfect kill record remains unchallenged as a result. You take your victories where and how you can. After that incident, he followed you around for a while, impressive information gathering skills and a bit of dumb luck will do that. But he came to settle here in this town after a year or so. All that aside, he's a couple albums short of a discography and works at customs. If he wanted to, he could send your gear to Bristol without much trouble, falsify a few documents, change a few scan results. Easy. Problem is, he fancies himself an upstanding citizen. You aren't the kind of person that gets along terribly well with upstanding folk. But that's not really the issue here. The issue here is that blackmailing him is just gonna be awkward. The only thing you really have on him is his awkweird devotion to his savior and you have his... you don't wanna think about it. Either way, you call him. He answers as you breathe slowly into the receiver. Before you get a chance to start the conversation, he asks if it's you. You acknowledge that he's right and then get straight to business. He seems nervous. You ask him what the problem is. He says, predictably, that what you wish to do is wrong. It's not wrong, it's illegal. Two different things. You tell him that much and remind him that you have that. He knows without being told what you mean. He moans and groans and protests and bugs the living **** outta you, but you hold firm. He'll crack. He tells you that he has a girlfriend now and his life was just starting to look up finally. You roll your eyes and tell him all the more reason not to **** it up. Either he does what you say or you'll end it all. He does more of his unwilling act and then finally accedes. You wonder for a moment if it's all men or only men that you know that are such wild cocksucking nuisances. Whatever, he's cracked and you won't have to talk to him again. Ever. Hopefully. You ask if he's still at work. He acknowledges that he's working the night shift at the moment. You tell him to wait for your call. After a cab ride and a few minutes of walking you find yourself at the customs office. He's waiting out front. He's fidgeting nervously. You [] Scout the area. See what's up. [] Walk up to him. [] Make your call.
Spoiler You decide it's best to just focus on the task at hand and try to make sense of all this garbage later. It's bad enough having to worry about people constantly trying to kill you without people filming you on the job. No, you decided you'd stop thinking about those things and get your gear to Bristol. While you're able to get a flight on short notice with a little extra money to grease the gears your guns and explosives are another matter. Even the exoskeleton is gonna need to be sent separately. The easiest way that you've found is to just send it over with a private plane. Things don't get lost often and questions get asked even less frequently. It's ideal. So you make some calls to arrange the whole deal and then head off to the abandoned airfield to get everything shipped. Well, everything except your Double Eagle. That's coming with you on your person come hell or high water. Half an hour later at the airfield you meet with Antonio and Sergio, the twins who run the facility. You tell them that you need the usual deal and they look at each other nervously. Not again. Apparently the plane that took Wesson out of town was the last one running for two weeks due to problems with Homeland Security and they can't just hold onto your gear, well, you're not going to let these two chucklefucks do it. If you break the law with someone, you know they're a criminal and criminals can't be trusted. Time for Plan B. You hate Plan B. Plan be involves blackmail or bribery. As a professional, you find the whole thing very silly. Services, like goods should have a standard market value and there should be nonnegotiable contracts that go along with them. But corrupt officials or blackmail victims could turn around and hand you over to whoever whenever. It's just plain silly. So you [] Blackmail. [] Bribe. [] Plan C.
Since the theme is NaNoWriMo I decided to forgo editing. Yes, that's why. Not because I just wrote more than half of this. Impossible. Hahaha. Spoiler The rays of morning light splayed themselves weakly over the uneven tiled floor, reaching feebly for the foot of the lumpy purple clothed bed but inevitably failing as always. But in the shadows of ever newer and taller building projects, this was the best one could hope for. The purple sheets rustled as a small device began shaking and screaming up a storm. Within seconds the small plastic brick was silent once more. After some silence and some rolling about, the room's sole occupant made her presence visible. She had three colors of hair sharply changing in layers from bottle blonde at the bottom to dull gold in the middle to rich caramel about the topmost. She looked across the floor to the dirty cracked mirror and frowned. “I look like shit.” Without a second thought she stood, slung a towel over her shoulder, picked up a bag filled with plastic bottles and soaps, stalked into the hallway and then the bathroom, turned on the shower and stopped thinking about all of the things she had to be doing for twenty minutes under the icy droplets she took rather than pay for coffee or a heating bill. Far from refreshed but undeniably more awake she returned to her room to dress and pack. She had to be at the office at eight, the restaurant and noon and the school at six. She had just enough room in her messenger bag to stuff a neatly folded uniform a file binder and a few books. She looked in the mirror again. “Passable.” The dull echoing clack of her flats against the slowly peeling, composite tiles as she crossed the room and traversed the hallways of the apartment served as a reminder of how alone she was this early in the morning. In short order she joined the dregs of the night shift and the vanguard of the day on the streets. There were fewer people at this time of day than you'd see at any other time in the city. It was almost refreshing, until she climbed the stairs onto the University Shuttle and flashed her ID. “Today is gonna be another zinger.” The ten sets of eyes flashed up to meet her gaze for half an instant before dropping back down to their smart phones. She edged past Mr. Josef Basche, the portly Janitor/Busker/Comic Artist and took a seat next to Miss Ramona Freely an undergraduate TA/full time student/aspiring YouTube celebrity. The trichromatic haired girl pulled a book from her bag and began reading. For the next ten minutes she lost herself in the exploits of a daring young lad on and adventure to restore the kingdom of Antalk to its former dragon riding glory. It was typical time filling trash fantasy, but it was better than her life, so she read on until she was stepping off the bus onto the cracked sidewalk of the university, staring at her current place of study in the fine arts house as she stowed her book away glumly. “It's only until work starts.” She took a moment to arrange her hair by the reflection in the front door's windows before entering. She hardly had to dress in full business casual to do her research but she had noticed that just dressing like a normal human made her look like an undergrad that everyone was allowed to ignore. The extra effort in dressing herself up made up for itself in the time she didn't have to spend tapping her foot and waiting for someone to, “have time,” for her. When she got to her desk, she was greeted by a particularly unwelcome face. “Hello, Mark.” She smiled. If she was good at anything, it'd have to be smiling. She could smile whenever she wanted and look as genuine and natural as the real deal. “Hey.” Now Mark was, is and forever shall be scum. A worthless neckbeard with delusions of grandeur. If he ever gets a wife it will be an abusive relationship one way or the other. And suddenly he begins his trademark ****** lean. Arm parallel to the ground, planted firmly on the nearest wall just above her head level in a mockery of nonchalance so he can take the opportunity to shove his face into hers and attempt not so surreptitiously staring down her blouse. Not that he could with it buttoned up and covered with a sweater vest, but that didn't seem to stop him from trying. It was almost sickening. “How are you?” She asked pleasantly. “Cards lost last night.” He moaned. “That's too bad. Won't be watching the playoffs then?” Making small talk was a strong point of hers. One she wished did not exist. If she was awkward and incapable a speaking without putting her foot in her mouth no one would bother with her and she wouldn't look like she was being rude. “Of course I'm gonna still watch the playoffs, gotta see if the team that beat them gets their due.” He went on. Perfect. “Oh. Well, I hope they do.” When he saw the girl trying to pass him and reach the stairs Mark flung his free arm across the hall rather dully and tried to resuscitate the stillborn conversation. “Yeah, so you doing anything Friday night?” “I've got work. I've always got work. Bills won't pay themselves.” She smiled apologetically. “Right, you live alone now, don't you?” “I've got roommates. Lots of roommates.” “Seeya around then.” “Disgusting.” She breathed venomously the second he'd rounded a corner. Without another thought she began her walk up the spiral staircase to the library. Upon entering her destination, she saw her boss. Professor Roddingham, a man in his late forties, still single, still searching. He greeted her formally and gave her the day's assignments. Before and after class she had to alphabetize some books and update the new arrivals into the database. Nothing difficult. That's why she had chosen to put her degrees in English and art history towards library science. She only had to deal with books, computers and the occasional librarian. For the most part, it was a dream job. She already knew SQL, she already knew how to script, she already read half the books in the library and she already knew the history of the world from 6000 BCE to 1980 CE. Getting the degree and doing the internship was almost a matter of going through the motions. “Good.” The professor concluded. “I hope you have a good day, happy hunting.” “Thank you. I will see you later.” She sighed and started to work. And work. And work. Silently, diligently, tirelessly. She continued on until her class for which she left for three hours and promptly returned from. In her final hours at the library she finished up her progress report and left it on Roddingham's desk. He'd pick it up and read it in a few hours and sigh as always. She was a bright girl he always said to his colleagues and other interns. She was capable and driven. More so that anyone he'd ever seen. He told her time after time that it'd be better if she would quit her other jobs and stay at the internship all day but she would always reply, “Stacking books isn't paying the bills yet and with all due respect I don't see you replacing me.” “You're early.” Meena was a deadly serious woman in her early thirties in spite of her appearance barely cracking her late teens. She seemed to glare though as he coworker entered the kitchen in her tacky yellow uniform. “I'm never early, I'm always precisely and exactly on time.” She countered haughtily. “You're trying to steal hours again.” “My shift starts in two minutes, I haven't even clocked in and I'm a waitress while you're a dish washer.” “You should wait outside until you're needed.” The elder of the two insisted. “I'm not gonna hang around on the street. I get hit on enough as it is in here. Out there it'd be nothing but a torrent of, 'HEY GURL! 'emme get yo' numbah gurrl, I'onna take you home,' and all that ****.” “Back in India, the boss would agree with me and you'd be outside.” She sounded pretty disgusted, and disdainful not that she ever sounded much of anything else. “Well, good for me we live in the great country of not India.” “You're late for your shift.” “I'm on time. I'm always on time.” Meena, if that is her real name, was supposedly a surgeon back in India, if that is where she's actually from. A decent one supposedly, but a malpractice suit or some other scandal and a few covert trips to the emigration office later had her studying culinary arts here in Fawlinbrook. She said she can't handle cutting on something living after what happened back there and decided that she needed something else to do so while she's going to school she's working as a dishwasher/de facto daytime chef at this cruddy little restaurant. “Go. Shoo.” Meena made a matching hand motion and her counterpart finally took to the floor. Without a second thought she composed her face into a pleasant but not too friendly smile and took her first set of customers. Greg Grey, Luke Lawrence and Henrietta Hughes. They were regulars at the diner and were probably the only example of good customers their waitress had ever seen. They decided promptly and communicated their decisions precisely. They didn't talk too loudly or leave a mess and they tipped twenty five percent cash. The waitstaff had a suspicion that they might be some manner of super hero group. The alliterative names and overall too good to be true quality they seemed to exude made it seem like that was the only possibility. “Hello... Carol today? I think I liked it better when you were a Wendy.” Greg joked at her name tag. There had only been one set of name tags made up for the diner. Carol, Gloria, Harris, Sylvia, Stanley, Benjamin, Josie, Cody, Wendy and Natalie were the original waitstaff of Mel's Diner. And Mel's Diner was a cheap, run down hole in the wall that Sun Min Luang had started thirty years ago with the idea that Mel's Diner was a very American name. He was right. He'd since gotten a better gig on Wall Street and sold the diner to the less than savvy businessman who now owned it, Larry. Larry Kreug was half German and half Italian. He worked with Italian efficiency and German hospitality. Everyone who talked to him for more than two seconds hated him and everyone who worked with him for more than a day hated him. “I always thought I made a great Carol.” Their waitress smiled perfectly. Just enough to seem friendly without being overbearing. Plastic as it was the three just smiled back and asked for the usual. Carol whisked away their menus, gave them an ETA on the food in and moved on with her day without missing a beat. “Meena. Do you ever miss India, if that is where you really lived?” Carol asked was she waited for the last bit of meat to brown on the Daily Special. “No. It is more relaxed here, easier to criticise people.” “Is that actually why you like it here?” “No. I was being funny. I like I here because I am away from home. No more family problems.” “Don't they still call you every day? Sometimes during your shifts, even.” “Yes. But that is better than then walking in while I am trying to cut open a patient, yes?” “Okay. Admittedly. But--” “Food is done. You take it out.” “Nice talking to you.” Carol's shift was over after that last group. So she removed her nametag and took the return bus to the campus for the night's battery of classes. She didn't actually need to take some of these classes Roddingham had told her at one point. But Roddingham was the type who still believed the internet was a fad and that computers were fancy. Taking a few CS courses and an extra Library Science course would get her out a semester early and improve her resume. The girl scoffed slightly at the thought. She hadn't spent a whole weekend planning her next two years out for nothing. Roddingham meant well, but if the road to hell truly is paved with good intentions, he's getting himself into a mighty nice hand basket. Then she snickered slightly at the mixed metaphor and continued writing out her notes. After the final screen went dark in the computer lab it was ten o' clock at night and the evening shift at the diner was about to begin. Today Noel was sick and no one else was around to fill in the hours so Carol was scheduled to appear again. She sighed. Normally her day would be over by now, but it felt as though she was just starting. Not that she minded the extra pay and extra time to talk to the Chef. For a man in his late forties with a weight problem, he was probably the most attractive person the trichromatic haired girl knew. She personally didn't think much of him in that way, but she did feel that if anyone deserved to be loved and appreciated in this world, it was him. “You're late.” Meena groused on her way out the door. It was time for her classes to start. “You should be glad I'm here at all.” “Hi, Carol.” The Chef beamed as he handed over her nametag. “We really need to stop it with shuffling these around. Gotta pick a name and stick to it.” “But we've got six extras that way.” Carol pointed out. “Larry might eventually fill those positions.” The Chef shrugged his enormous shoulders. If he lost about two hundred pounds, he'd probably look really good for his age. He was six foot four and broad shouldered. From what Carol could glean he also had decent bone structure and didn't seem to be wrinkling or spotting with age at all, yet. She could never get up the heart to tell him though. After his wife died in that car accident he could only find solace in his cooking and asking him to stop eating seemed like it would be in awfully poor taste. Larry also insulted him enough about his weight. “You know he can't afford it.” “I know, but hope springs eternal in the hearts of man.” “Good thing I'm a woman, then.” “Come on, you've got a bright future ahead of you. This is just a pebble sitting on one of your stepping stones to greatness.” “Chef. You're impossible.” “I'm improbable.” He corrected with a wink as Carol left for the floor. It was completely empty. People wouldn't be rolling in for another hour or so if history was any indicator. So Carol groaned and moved back into the kitchen. “Chef. It's gonna be empty again.” “Don't worry, Larry will fire you last.” “I feel like that'd be the height of stupidity given as I'm not cookstaff.” “It is Larry.” “What was all that about hope springs and bath houses?” “A whim.” “So, Chef. Anything interesting today?” “No, not really. Same as usual. I have to say though, I'm beginning to suspect that you're right about Meena.” “Why's that?” “She hit me today for dozing off in the afternoon and I have to get back at her somehow.” “You could always just leave a single fingerprint on anything in her station and not tell her who did it. That's a good way to annoy her.” “That'd be mean.” “Can't get revenge without opening up that can of worms. You're too nice for your own good. If you didn't have more life experience than me, I'd tell you that the world was gonna chew you up and spit you out.” “But I do have more and I say you need to relax a bit more. You're way to schedule and goal oriented.” “I am what we call efficient, okay? I work with Italian personality and German ethic because I need to. If I was doing what pleased me, I wouldn't be helping my parents with bills. They're both garbage and--” “You shouldn't speak about them that way.” “They're not your parents, you don't have to defend their honor.” “It's not nice though. You are pretty much half of each of them.” “The better half, apparently. I can't believe they really provided my genetic material, though. I bet I'm secretly adopted.” “The world works in strange ways.” “I like how you didn't say God just to spare me the aggravation.” “I don't actually believe in the traditional Christian, Big Man Upstairs either.” “But you do believe in the Cosmic Chick of Salvation or whatever she is.” “It just makes more sense for God to be a woman.” “How so?” “God is a representation of life and creation. Women are associated with life and creation. God is easy to count on. Women are easy to count on. God is incredibly scary when incensed. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. God--” “I get the idea.” “See?” “I don't actually care. I don't profess a belief because I don't have time to figure out which one is best. The scheduling just doesn't work out.” “Oh, you.” “I could say the same.” “Is that a customer?” “Where?” Carol spun around, she'd been so preoccupied with conversation that she'd forgotten to periodically check the door. But when her eyes survey the diner she found it just as empty as before. “You got me.” “Never let your guard down, Carol. Never let your guard down.” “That whole contest is stupid, you know that right?” “You're only saying that because Meena is beat you now.” “She's imperturbable. You can't get her to blink, much less turn around.” “I've done it.” “I can't.” She corrected herself. “It's because you're not a people person. You're an actor.” “I have no idea where you get half of this stuff.” “And the other half?” “You clearly pull from your ass.” “Everything I say is a hundred percent honest and pure.” He pouted. “Whatever.” The girl shrugged. The Chef was like the father figure she always wanted. Smart, funny and most of all, accepting. He let her think what she wanted but didn't skirt the topics that they disagreed on to avoid arguments. It was such a shame that his wife died. He should find someone else, Carol decided. Around midnight a single customer showed up for some coffee, eggs and bacon and promptly left when he'd finished. At one Carol's nametag was in the bin with the rest of them and the trichromatic haired girl was leaving for home. The Chef had offered to close up for her but she ended up bullying Larry into doing it instead. Larry lived in the diner after all. It should be his business locking it up. Upon arriving home the girl stripped off her uniform and fell into bed. There wasn't anything left to do but check messages and sleep. Oh how attractive sleep seemed. Her phone cast a pale blue light over her face as she thumbed through her menus. One voice mail. For a moment she thought about just ignoring it. When she saw who it was from, she decided against it. So she lay awake, with her phone next to her ear, listening intently the the ringing sound issuing from it until it connected to voice mail and put the message through. “Hi, Paige. I know you're busy. You're always busy. I can't really see how you manage it all, but you do. You're great. Well, anyhow, I just wanted to wish you a happy twenty third birthday. I know you don't like people reminding you, but it's important to me. You're important to me. When I'm in town again-- click” “Fuck you. Stay in New York.”
They didn't speak Greek in Valhalla.
That's wrong.
Why not? It's not real, right? You click on it and select the open option. A happy cat charm starts dancing around the text box indicating something is loading and then the screen goes blank. You blink in disbelief. Did that thing just kill your phone? Your confusion is laid to rest a moment later when a video fades in from the black. It seems to be an advertisement of some sort. There's a cityscape and some music playing in the background. It's smooth jazz. Ugh. You keep watching anyway. That's when you see her. Her current name is Charlotte Brink. She's the only person in the world that you think is a better sniper than you are and now you recognize this place. It's New York and this was her last job that you remember reading about in the news. How did someone get footage of this. It looks really steady too, it's-- the screen flickers and footage of some other assassins you recognize show up, including Sour Kraut. All people at the top of the industry. Then you see two things that really surprise you. First is yourself in Spain lining up a shot. Second is Remiel Wesson. The video ends. Then a message starts unfurling in front of you, superimposed over the empty rooftop. "I told you so." Sour. He left this for you somehow. You don't know why or how he got his hands on this video or why it was even made. This whole thing is suddenly a lot more problematic than you thought it'd be. Two years, huh? You [] don't worry about it. [] go find Sour Kraut. [] arrange to have your equipment sent to Bristol. [] share the video with everyone.
vBulletin was shit. Xenforo is worse. I deal with it. Everyone else should, too.
You really don't spend a lot of time online so you actually have no idea what to do once you've logged on. In fact you should probably just ditch the data plan soon for all the good it's usually doing you. It's not too important now, you guess. Regardless, you decide to take the opportunity to check your e-mail. Nothing much, more news from back home. Like they actually expect you to come back. You left that dumpy little town for a reason. Well, for a lot of reasons. Not the east of which being your strained relationship with your father and mother. Dad wants you to stay at the Wild West show, Mom wants you to learn how to bake pies and vacuum the rug all day. No use thinking about things that happened ten years ago. You still send unmarked gifts occasionally. It's not like you actually hate them or anything, you just can't for the life of you live with them. None of them really. Everyone there was a little bit off in some way. Must be what comes of living in 1950's America when everyone else has grown the fuck up. That's it for the internet. To distract yourself from thinking about annoying things you decide to test out the AR application. At first, you're clueless. No idea what to do. At. All. So you end up just waving it around looking at stuff, expecting to see some change. Well, that's not how it works. After about a minute, you manage to get it working. Well, you think it's working. There's a suitcase on the ground in your phone that wasn't there a minute ago and isn't actually there. You [] Open it. [] Leave it.
The fact that this is only just now dawning on you is a tad disheartening.
Mainly. Always. You are going to fail your GED.
Trading post.
This got me thinking. You should probably know what our character looks like more or less. Feel free to drawfag up your own if that's your thing that you do, but he's my take. http://i.minus.com/iQ1LAZEdUORU3.png
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Find the 0 without using Find.
ujujnwafoirhtes;094it5hwengluiwqhf;oieahagkneslgiowth4tino tj495
You take your finger off the trigger and watch him keep going. Luckily enough, even after he leaves your range he keeps going in that direction. Looks like you made the right call. Anyway, time to get other things done. This day has been incredibly stupid and it reminds you exactly how much you aren't a morning person and exactly how aware you are that it's always morning somewhere. Not much else to do but arrange a way outta town. Maybe you can do something with your phone. Apparently, yeah, you can get a ticket out of here tomorrow on a real plane. Speaking of that, you text Wesson to relax, breathe and rest because Sour Kraut is no longer on his trail. Before you get a chance to send that message, however, you get another one from Wesson asking what you did to make Sour change his mind. You back up and say it doesn't make sense to you either, but you expect a portion of his cut as compensation. After that's sent you decide to familiarize yourself with more of your phone's functions. It's one of those Pear Corporation deals, you usually don't like them but this was a souvenir from a guardsman in Spain. Well, it's what you got when you traded that thing in so you can't complain. After a few casual sweeps through the system you're pretty sure that you don't have any flash games or anything. There is an AR app sitting on the bottom toolbar for some reason and a diary app just above it. Do you [] Use the AR application. [] Use the diary application. [] Connect to the internet.
