Guns like cigarettes

[Tithed_Verse]

It's a fucked up world, and what do you get from it? Sex and drugs and guns like Cigarettes ~ The Pretty Reckless

Click to shrink...

Spoiler: notifications

@Yatr
@GAWR

The rumbling thunder of artillery in the distance cuts an urgent note across your deadened mind. The second thing you notice is the smell. Wherever you are stinks of piss, blood, rot and sweat.

Fighting your way back to consciousness is the most exhausting fight of your brief existence. Your tongue is swollen like a slug caught in your throat.

The ceiling is stucco. A phrase crosses your mind 'This is stucco and you are the stuckee'

The couch in which you are entombed is red. The leather surface doesn't smell like the real thing. Your pillow resembles a dead rodent.

Your eyes track across the room, resting on a rack full of clothing, and a table covered with wigs on decapitated mannequin. You need to pee. Badly.

You stumble out of the couch and flop boneless to the floor. Ow. Maybe not boneless. An open briefcase full of passports and other official looking paperwork breaks your fall. They all look like how you could look and yet none of them ARE you. You are faceless.

You choose three at random

[][Passport] Gabriel Yossling
Sex/Gender: Male
Nationality: République socialiste des Falaises 'Blanc'
Visa: Student visa

[][Passport] Aniya Dulka
Sex: Female
Nationality: Obotrite 'Obo'
Visa: Technical Worker Visa

[][Passport] Fang Wei
Gender: N/A
Nationality: Xīndíjiā: 辛迪加 'Xindig'
Visa: Bereavement Visa

After flipping through the small pictures, you stumble over to a small vanity... the nicest part of this apartment. You grab foundation, blush, eye-shadow, highlights, shaders, glue, prosthetics, texture brushes, wigs... within moments you match the person in the passport. You remember, vaguely, creating these persona for yourself. You discussed their history, their habits, their way of speaking with... with someone.

You feel much more comfortable with a Face.

You run your eyes across the apartment again, noting the scattered notes, written in code and in no particular order. The computer humming away in the corner. The telephone, ripped from the wall. The ashtray, empty of even dust. The corpse slumped in the corner. It's face could easily be yours.

You walk over to it, your shoes clicking against the hard cement, and crouch down. You run your fingers along the jawline. You bring the eyes up to look into yours. It's not been dead long.

You don't know why, but you lean forward and kiss him on the lips.

Some sort of badge falls out of his pocket and lands on the floor. Counter-espionage.

There should be enough acid in the bathroom to dissolve a corpse or two, but that will take multiple days and it will smell. Maybe you can get it out of the apartment and dump it somewhere. Maybe you can get out of the apartment and leave it to be someone else's problem.

The phone rings. Startled you swing around to glare at it. Laying on it's side on the ground, the boxy wall phone has seen better days. But it's still connected by a thin wire. Do you answer?
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