kore_logs | And every time you go to sleep...

He doesn't know how he got there, but there he is, package of heroin wrapped in brown paper in one hand and a hand on the gun in his jacket, looking over his shoulder to the man standing behind him. It's not his usual partner, and somehow that seems out of place, too, but he brushes the thought aside.

There are four men in front of them. Four men demanding something from them, something not previously agreed to. The four men have guns, too, guns they don't bother to conceal. By the time the first shot rings out -- he doesn't know where it comes from, but it echoes around him, somehow louder than any gunshot should be -- he's already running for cover, hoping his partner's following him, reaching for his own gun with his free hand.

Edited 2013-06-19 04:21 (UTC)

It takes him a while to even figure out where he is, to get himself situated. He's dreaming, he's pretty sure he's dreaming, but it doesn't stop him from taking a minute to soak in his surroundings. Shit's old, and he paws at the suit he's wearing, looks up a bit surprised at the pistol he's got jammed into the waistline of his pants.

But there's not really time to stop and marvel. The gunshot's loud, omnipresent, and Jesse flinches outright. "What the fuck is-" he starts to say distantly to someone running past him, but when the second shot whizzes past his head, instinct automatically kicks in. Yeah. Cover. Cover sounds good right now. He's immediately behind the car across the street, back up against the door and the gun suddenly out and in his hand. "What the fuck is going on?"

"What the fuck do you think's going on?" Meyer asks, voice tight with concentration and no small amount of irritation as he peers around the side of the car to get an idea of where those four guys are. They've spread out now, all of their guns raised, pointed at the car that Jesse and Meyer have taken cover behind.

"Those guys," he says, nodding his head in their general direction as he finally sets down the package of heroin and takes the safety off his gun, "don't like us guys. That obvious enough?"

Truth be told, he's not sure what happened. One minute, they were making a deal. The next minute, they were getting shot at.

He just- stares at Meyer, for a solid beat. "Uh, wow, thanks, Captain Obvious, you know, that's really startin' to clear this up!" But he's turning in his spot, starting to duck his head tentatively out past his own side of the car, pistol raised in his hand. "What's the matter, this shit not good enough for the princesses?"

It's like a slow bleed, how he comes to realize what's going on here and now - the deal, the men, the heroin and all. His being out of place turns into his belonging right where he is, and that feels simultaneously wrong and understandable.

A bullet ricochets off the front bumper of the car and Jesse slams back against the thing, head hitting back hard against the door with a solid thud. "If you've got any other brilliant plans, ya know, now would be an awful good time to hear 'em!"

"It'd be a good time to stop talking and start shooting," he retorts, shaking his head slightly. He's outwardly calm as ever, although a little less than pleased with the way the situation's turned out. It was supposed to have been arranged, this deal, was supposed to be in the bag, although he can't quite remember who said that or why he feels that so strongly.

He hasn't quite realized that this is a dream, and he's taking it all very seriously. Turning his gaze to Jesse, he looks at him intently. "You better be a good shot."

If Jesse's not a good shot, he has no idea what he's doing with him as his partner. He takes a cautious glance over the hood of the car, only enough to see where the men are located, to take stock of what kind of guns they have, to estimate just how soon it'll be before they need to reload and he can get a shot off.

With a bit of an insulted huff, Jesse's fingers flex around the gun. "'You better be a good shot,' he says. 'You better be a good,'" and he stands suddenly, peers around the side of the car and fires off his first shot, clips one guy in the arm, "'shot!'" And he's back behind the car, breathing heavily.

Okay, so he's not that good. He recalls that one time way back, shooting with Mike. But beyond that all he's got under his belt are video games, and they're good in theory and all but they're not exactly A-grade for teaching someone how to shoot properly, particularly when his adrenaline's going and there's people shooting back at him.

"There's four guys over there, man, I don't know what kinda odds you think we're lookin' at here but I ain't exactly got myself high fuckin' hopes for us!"

"I'm well aware of how to count," he remarks, checking his gun once more, and preparing to stand and fire a shot just as soon as Jesse's ducked back behind the car, "And four against two isn't bad odds in this situation, statistically speaking."

When he pops up from behind the car, he moves quickly, gun at the ready, aim steady and true. He fires two shots, the first one into the chest of the closest man, the second one into his head. There's a chance he could get off another shot, hit one of the other guys, maybe the guy that Jesse wounded, but he's not willing to take the chance, not when two of the guys are shooting back in earnest and the guy Jesse had shot seems to be getting angrier by the second.

"Three against two," he says, leaning back against the car for a moment, well aware that the three guys are getting closer, that they've decided to abandon their previous strategy and are now walking towards the car, firing off shots every so often in the hopes that either Jesse or Meyer will pop up again.

"That's twice as many, yo, those ain't exactly the best kinda - "

Meyer ducks out before he can finish speaking and he cuts off with a swear under his breath, hears the shots first and the sound of the body falling next. Did he just-? By the time Meyer's back behind the car, Jesse's just staring at him for a few long seconds, awed or shocked or something in between. Was there anything this guy wasn't good at? "Where the hell'd you learn to-"

No, belay that - he's just going to screw up his face again in preparation, leans heavily against the car before he starts to stand again himself. "Never mind," he shoots off before he stands again in the midst of a short lull. He takes a half a second too long to determine where the guys in question are, shoots erratically at them until one of the bullets sinks into one of their cheeks.

He's back down again, a wider look to his eyes than before. "Two."

It's probably for the best that Jesse doesn't continue that line of questioning. This isn't really the time or place to explain how he got to be such a good shot. Instead, he simply bides his time, waiting as Jesse stands, listening to the erratic gunfire and waiting for the telltale sound of another body dropping to the pavement.

As soon as Jesse gets back behind the car, he's looking at him steadily, nodding. "Okay. Not such bad odds now, yes? We wait for them to reload, and then we both jump up at the same time and finish them off."

It's not exactly a directive, but it's not a question, either. If Jesse has a better idea, he's willing to hear it, but huddling behind this car is getting unpleasantly cramped, and the bullets whizzing around them don't help matters much.

It's lucky, between all the chaos and the adrenaline and everything - it's no forethought, it's just purely self-defense - that Jesse doesn't really have any time to think about what he's doing, or the fact that he's just personally killed a man. Even so, his hand shakes a little when he sinks back onto his haunches; he has to cup his free one over the butt of the gun to steady himself.

His eyes are still wide when he looks over to Meyer, soaks in his plan and- well, in the moment, it sounds like the best they've got to work with. He's not exactly in a position to argue here, and he's certainly not voting for the sit here and die option.

A few more shots fire off, and as if on cue, there's another short lull in the gunfire. Jesse wets his lips and with a curt nod to Meyer to signal, he immediately pushes off the car, stands and almost starts firing before he can even get his vision to clear enough to aim.

As soon as Jesse gives him the signal, he's up, gun at the ready, giving himself just enough time to line up the shot accurately and aim for the guy Jesse's not shooting at, figuring if they can both take one guy down, they'll be set. As always, he aims for the chest first, two shots this time to be absolutely certain, and then a third shot to the guy's head. There're two bullets left in his gun before he needs to reload, but suddenly, the street has grown much quieter, the only noise remaining the sound of the bullets being fired from Jesse's gun.

Glancing at him, and then glancing back at the street, he nods slightly. "That's it," he says quietly, his voice steely. The four men lie sprawled on the pavement, the blood pooling underneath them, somehow strangely vibrant despite the dim light. It's only after a few seconds that he realizes a bullet must have just barely missed him; his cheek stings, and he raises his hand to his face to wipe the blood away. The bullet had grazed him. Nothing more. Nothing to worry about.

Jesse's less lucky, but then again also not as good of a shot. Once he's standing, he fires off two, misses both, and gets himself a bullet directly into the left shoulder. His chest jerks, he stumbles back a step, but he really doesn't have time to think about it - he just steps forward again, points and aims, and this time when he shoots, the guy catches it right in the forehead. The guy doesn't even teeter, he just reels backwards onto the pavement.

Meyer's last few bullets echo out across the street and Jesse can feel his ears ringing. That's the thing that had always surprised him the most, he remembers distinctly from the first time he ever fired a gun, "Louder than in the movies," he remarks absently as he looks back over at Meyer, and the gun clatters from his hand and onto the ground. Adrenaline's got him all flustered, he's still not thinking about his shoulder. "You hit?"

He gestures to his cheek, shrugging. "Not really," he points out, and then studies Jesse more carefully, noting, for the first time, that Jesse's been shot. "We need to deal with that," he says, nodding at Jesse's shoulder, "And we need to deal with that," he says, nodding at the four men lying in the street.

There's no time to think about anything else, no time to have a heart to heart discussion about what had just happened -- although he wouldn't be inclined to, anyway, something tells him that Jesse isn't exactly used to this sort of thing. That, and the comment about gunshots being louder in the movies (movies hadn't had sound the last time Meyer had checked) had started to make him think something was slightly off here, but he hadn't quite realized it was a dream yet.

"How's the shoulder feel?"

If it's not a bad wound, they can deal with it later, but he knows better than to leave certain gunshot wounds alone for now.

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magnets - 2013-06-20 19:27 (UTC) - Expand

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recognize_an_opportunity - 2013-06-20 19:44 (UTC) - Expand

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recognize_an_opportunity - 2013-06-26 20:55 (UTC) - Expand

It isn't as if she's never been in a shootout before. What she has not been involved with is a drug deal. She has no idea how they work, but apparently Meyer does. Never mind that it's illogical that she's here, or that she has a gun that she promptly drops in disgust, even as she's running. Gun fights are not out of the ordinary for her, but they're still frightening, and when she drops down behind the cover, she looks a little frantic. Calm! She's cool headed - but frantic.

"Why are they shooting at us? Did we do something wrong?" She asks, even as she's looking out from behind the cover.

He's already getting himself to cover, and when he turns to look behind him, he sees someone there he doesn't expect: Elizabeth. For a moment, he's baffled. How had she gotten there, when he'd thought he'd been with a male partner all along? Had she been there for the whole deal, as the whole thing had gone bad? Soon, though, dream logic takes over, and he assures himself that she'd been there along, fitting her seamlessly into the previous events.

When he notices that she dropped the gun, though, the look he gives her is less confused and more irritated, and her question makes him shake his head. "We didn't do anything wrong. They just think we did, and now they want we should pay for it. But since I'd like to avoid getting shot today, maybe you shoulda held onto the gun."

Dream logic, it makes everything make sense. From her own perspective, she had been there the entire time, though since she has a not very clear idea of how these sort of things work, her own memories of the event are fuzzy and probably wildly unrealistic. Much more like a cowboy standoff than a drug deal.

In any case, that's not the important part. She gives Meyer an irritated look of her own, folding her arms over her chest. "Guns are very much not my style, Mr. Meyer, and you won't find me using one." She scans the room, however. "I can be of use otherwise. If you see a tear that could be useful, tell me."

You remember tears, Meyer - there are several throughout the room, varying from guns to medical kits to, in the corner, a very large mechanical president with a very large gun. Her own memories seem to have not have much problem sneaking into Meyer's dream, anyway.

Guns aren't her style? That's singularly unhelpful, he thinks, but he doesn't have time to get into a debate with her about the usefulness of guns. Oddly, he finds that he does remember tears, although it's not something he should know about if he's really back home in New York.

"Get us another weapon," he says, voice tight, anxiety clearly mounting as the not particularly pleased group of gangsters approach them, yelling at them, taunting them, telling them that there's no way four against two can turn out well. He ignores them, not allowing himself to be drawn out by their juvenile manner. If they both remain calm, they can get through this.

"I can't take out four guys on my own," he says, amending his previous statement slightly. While he hopes it doesn't come down to a standoff like that, he's not optimistic. They'd tried to talk it out, tried to come to an agreement, but those four guys had been stubborn, and they'd seemed bent on violence of some kind or another.

Another weapon. She can do that just fine, she knows exactly what to do. Making sure that the men aren't going to shoot her down the second she moves, Elizabeth leaps up, throws the tear open that holds the motorized patriot - and then drops back down behind the cover.

Of course, in the time span that it takes to do that, the other gangsters take a few shots at her, but she isn't too concerned about that, since she doesn't hurt anywhere or anything. She's fine, and besides, she's more focused on peeking around the corner to watch said gangsters shriek and try to shoot the giant Washington robot that's coming at them with a gatling gun.

"There," Elizabeth says, pleased, turning to look at Meyer. She hasn't noticed her ripped sleeve or the bullet graze that's got her arm bleeding, either because of adrenaline or the dream or - the fact that she has no idea what that should feel like at all.

He's about to pop back up again, get off a few shots at those guys, maybe take down one or two of them -- he's a good shot, he could probably manage that without getting shot in return -- but when she opens the tear and sends out that... whatever it is, his plans are abandoned, and somehow, the only appropriate response seems to be to stay behind cover and gape at her in surprise.

"What was that?" he asks, realizing that maybe it's a stupid question. Whatever it was, he realizes, is doing a damn good job clearing out the four gangsters that're approaching them. In fact, pretty soon, the angry thugs are reduced to being no threat at all. Impressive.

He glances away from the bizarre robot with the gatling gun to look at her, eyebrow raised. She may not notice she's bleeding, but he does, and he gestures at it. "You're bleeding," he points out, rather obviously, he thinks.

She beams, happy that she was able to clear out the room. Booker had made good use of her skills back in Columbia, anyway, so being useful here is nice. She's going to answer his question, but he points out that she's bleeding, and she blinks, looking down at her arm.

"Oh." Ow. She pulls the fabric of her shirt away to look at the wound - it's not serious but now that he's pointed it out, it does hurt. And she's never really been wounded badly like this before. The bullets in Columbia had never really come her way.

"I've never been shot before," Elizabeth says mildly, and she hisses a little when she touches it. "I suppose I'll need to wrap this up. As for what that was, it's a motorized patriot. Do you not have those here?"

"I can wrap it up for you."

He's already pulling out his handkerchief, preparing to do so. They can make a kind of makeshift bandage, at least, until she gets it taken care of properly. It's not a bad wound -- he's seen a lot worse -- but still, a bullet wound is a bullet wound, and they usually sting like hell.

"And no, we don't have those here."

In the logic of his dream, it makes sense, somehow. She's from somewhere else; thus, she can bring things from wherever she's from into his own world. But this is New York, isn't it, where that kind of thing shouldn't be possible. He doesn't give it much thought, simply reaching out for her arm and indicating for her to pull her sleeve aside so he can bandage it.

Oh, that's nice of him. Elizabeth wrinkles her nose a little, but then sighs with a little huff and turns so that he can bandage her arm. Maybe she's a little cautious in how she does - it's really improper for her to let him do it, or at least, she feels like it should be, but then again, none of this is normal. It's been such a long time since anything felt normal.

"They're quite useful in a firefight. They don't sustain bullet wounds, after all," Elizabeth says, watching Meyer work. "I hope it isn't too awfully strange to you."

"It's strange, but then, what's not strange around here?"

There's a long pause as he bandages her arm as best as he can. It's not a professional job, by any means, but it should staunch the bleeding, at least. He wonders why he'd said what he'd just said -- it is strange, and it's stranger than normal, and usually, he wouldn't be so dismissive of it.

After he finishes bandaging her arm, he finally gets the chance to look around, taking stock of the damage that mechanical thing had done. He's afraid the next part will be unpalatable to her, but there's no way around it. "Now that they're... dealt with," he says, waving a hand vaguely, "we need to get our products back."

There's no sense in leaving what drugs they'd already exchanged with the dead bodies, after all. Dead bodies have no use for heroin, but their live clients very much do, and though this had been the exact definition of a deal gone bad, he's not prepared to abandon the drugs, assuming they've not covered in blood, that is. He fully anticipates, however, that she may not want to go through the dead mens' pockets -- it's not a particularly pleasant task.

No, she's not pleased with having to loot dead bodies, but she's not unused to it. Booker does this... all the time. Not that she's sure where Booker is. That's not important. What is important is Meyer waving his hand and suggesting that they should go look for their product. Elizabeth looks a little squeamish at the notion, but she nods, standing up and holding her arm where the bandage is for a moment.

"Right, of course," Elizabeth says firmly, because she won't allow herself to be a weak link here. "How... shall we go about doing this?" She looks over at the bodies. That sure is a lot of blood.

He looks around. There had been four men, and they'd all fallen relatively close together. One of them, he'd noticed, had dropped a briefcase on the floor, and he gestures to it. "You go through that guy's briefcase. Take whatever we can't afford to leave without."

That doesn't just mean drugs. It can mean money, it can mean the guy's identification so it takes the cops longer to figure out who he is, it can mean bullets or weapons, but either way, he's attempting to give her the less unpleasant job. There's less blood near the briefcase, less chance of getting her hands dirty. He figures she's owed that, at least, since she'd been the one to bring the bizarre mechanical thing through the tear.

In the meantime, he crosses the room to the guy closest to them, crouches down, and starts going through his pockets and his jacket. To all outward appearances, this doesn't seem to bother him at all.

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voliere - 2013-07-03 22:34 (UTC) - Expand

And every time you go to sleep...

Run run baby I don't feel alive (Shootout dream)

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let's say day 84?

Re: Day 84 sounds excellent!

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