pineslog | tell me i'm evil [open]

Who: Brock Rumlow & you!
Where: Around town, Crossbones Boxing
When: 05.15-05.31
What: Just hanging out with this ~~cool~~ old dude. Or whatever!
Warnings: Language. More will be added as needed.

gym.

With doors wide open in invitation, a handful of people can be seen inside the gym. Some getting their own workout in, lifting weights, hitting bags, one seated and wrapping their hands. Near the back stands Rumlow, watching someone hitting one of the heavy bags. His expression serious, calculating, observing as each hit lands. Every so often, he'll give praise, or a correction to his student. A few minutes later, he glances up at the clock on the wall, claps his student on the back and tells them to cool off.

He meanders after, looking between the other patrons and giving them a few choice tips here and there before he heads into his office. The door remains open, and he seems to be going over some paperwork. His expression is disengaged, preoccupied with other thoughts. Either that or reading on paper is incredibly tedious, being used to the glare of a backlit computer. He'll shift between one paper and the next after a while. It doesn't seem like he would mind a visitor.

Probably because he's bored and checking over the contracts and making sure everyone is up to date on their bills is supremely dull. He is really considering hiring someone to do this for him, because while it's within his means, it's shit he really would rather pay someone else to do. Especially so he can focus on coaching. Or spending inordinate amounts of time working out to prevent his mind from wandering to the multitude of thoughts that plague him.

Coaching steals his focus better. It's impersonal and physical enough to keep his troubling memories at bay.

edge of town.

Some days of the week, Rumlow can be found running along the edge of the woods and through the less trafficked roads in town. Jogging along, he'll keep to himself, going around or cutting away from any others that might be in his path. Primarily he keeps to the outskirts, pace slow and built more for endurance than speed. Every so often, he'll slow his pace and do a little shadow boxing, as if to shove away the mundanity of cardio.

Rumlow wishes he had music to listen to, but jogging plus CD players equals skipping and that shit is even more annoying than silence. Plus, apparently earbuds haven't been invented yet here or whatever, and like Hell he's gonna wear over-ear headphones when he's running. Fashion fucking disaster. If you're quick enough or manage to get his attention, he's like to stop.

wildcard.

[ooc: your choice! feel free to plurk me if you have ideas!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Not exactly the response Rumlow expects from a kid. The lack of apology doesn't bother him much, but there's something in his tone, like hitting a stranger with a rock is the least of his worries. Hands setting at his hips, Rumlow casts a glance askance. There are cameras around, most likely, but his cover story here is close enough to use in his answer.

"Sometimes it's better to lay down cover fire and hope you hit someone just to keep the enemy's head down," Rumlow explains. "'S why we call it spray and pray."

He bends down, picking up the rock that had hit him and tosses it in the air once, twice. He offers it back to the kid, brows lifted.

"'Course that usually requires full auto rather than this single shot you've got workin' here."

Carl doesn't know what's more alarming: that he understood exactly what this man was saying, or the man pin pointed out Car's particular issue. His expression reveals just how much he's not sure how to react to that.

"Is there a gun range around here?"

He hasn't really seen any, but then again, he never asked. It's bad enough he gets stares with his wound, he doesn't want more pitying (and alarming) looks about some broken-looking kid that wants to shoot things.

"Not that I know of," Rumlow answers, though he gives the kid a look as he considers why exactly he's interested in one. Boy his age probably likes guns plenty, but given that eye patch? He's not so sure it's innocent.

"Ain't sure the Sheriff would be too keen on a kid with a gun anyway," Rumlow adds, though his tone makes it plain that he sure as shit doesn't give a rat's ass for what the Sheriff thinks. It's more a warning than anything. "Why're you asking?" he inquires, figuring he might as well come out with it. Rocks are sub par, sure but there's an aura about this kid. Like he's seen some shit. (Though, pretty easy deduction if the kid's truly missing a damn eye.)

The Sheriff. The guy in charge, not the mayor, Carl thinks. He remembers him - a boring looking man doing a fatherly attempt, concerned over his loss of eye, recommendation of going to therapy for further coordination control. Carl never followed up.

Carl is silent, struggling to find the words. He knows the rules: no talking about the past. Carl doesn't have a past. Anywhere, what he can tell. But he remembers. He's gotten the call and he remembers a town just like this, a man being beaten in the middle of the street; a man bloody, yelling, brandishing a gun. A massive group of corpses, walking in that same area, at night.

What Carl remembers, what Carl knows is this - it's all a lie. It's not safe.

"I don't think this place is safe."

He stares back at the man, daring him to tell him otherwise.

"Well, what with freak floods and a serious police presence, I can't say you're wrong."

Rumlow isn't sure whether the kid is aware of the cameras. The fact that they're nigh constantly monitored is what keeps him from confirming those suspicions outright. He doesn't really know this kid, and while his intuition is clearly on the right track, Rumlow ain't risking his neck for him. He gives him a long look instead, letting the silence stretch for a few moments. Rumlow licks his lips and readjusts the hands at his hips.

"Might wanna practice your aim some more. Always good to be prepared."

Carl has heard of flooding happening recently, but with like so many things, he doesn't recall it. He wishes he remembers being this part of the community so he won't have to feel so alone here. He noticed the cameras, but didn't think of them until he realized they were at home. And that's where Carl realized just how dangerous this place is.

It made sleeping in his own bed hard to do.

"Is it true what you said? That hitting someone helps your aim?"

"Well, it depends. If your targets are gonna be people, like if you were in a combat zone or something," Rumlow begins, shifting his stance and crossing his arms over his chest. "Then you wanna practice on the human shape. Learn how to aim for center mass. Head shots are fancy, but if you gotta take down an opponent, it's best to aim for their torso. It's different if you're sniping a stationary target, where you can take your time to aim."

Really, Rumlow doesn't think this violates the whole, don't talk about your past rule. It's just as applicable to the pretend version of himself that exists here, serving in that special ops team. Convenient that it's not so different from reality, Rumlow has to wonder if that's intentional.

"If sniping is what you're going for then cans are all right, just remember, people generally don't shine in the light. So you can't let something like that become your crutch."

Carl digest this kind of advice. It's something he thinks he already knows . . . but something about it bothers Carl. As if somehow, the rules of firing guns are a little different than what Carl is expecting. But he as no idea what to expect, as he doesn't remember. All he knows is that he's good with the gun, but he doesn't know for sure why that is, other than the fact that he lived in a dangerous world.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Carl admits. "I just . . . know I'm good at that kind of stuff. Just don't know how or why, especially with this." He gestures to his face.

He just knows from the little memories he got back, it's not pretty. Half the time he's afraid of the answer.

Lost memories -- an all too familiar condition around here. Rumlow wonders where the kid must be from, if shooting people is something he claims to be good at. Must not be a nice place, if it leads to a child getting his eye blinded. He'd guess a war zone if it weren't for how white and American the kid is. It's got Rumlow curious still, but he's got no reason to put this kid in danger by talking openly about it.

"'S a tough break, kid. But give it time, sometimes shit just works itself out in your head."

Rumlow hopes the hint is enough to dissuade him from pushing for more. It's rough, he knows, wondering what the Hell is missing from your mind. The way it sounds, kid is gonna get hit with some real crap, much like he had, learning the truth. Best he can really do it help is just offer advice.

"And when it does, keep your friends close. If they're worth it, they'll stick around."

tell me i'm evil [open]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject