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((Really, all GMing between these two is planned out. Saying that now to save time.))


They weren't alone.

They were still a ways off, but getting closer. R.J. felt around for his gun, still hoping he wouldn't need to use it. Nothing. He'd need to get up and look. He reached for a bag, it didn't matter which, to rest Mary-Ann's head on, so as not to disturb her.

"Kid, I don' know who you are, but you're a godsend baby."

Whoever was approaching, he was now standing right over them, and he'd launched into a monologue. R.J. fucking hated monologues. However, this was slightly different - the guy was monologing about how he had his gun. About how he was going to kill them. And that? That made something in R.J. snap. Mary-Ann was not going to die because he lost his gun to this douchebag. No chance in hell. Taking care not to wake her, he slid the bag under her head. The guy's speech bought him plenty of time to react calmly and rationally. He rose to his feet, slowly marching towards the monster in the darkness.

"If ya' got any last words you wanna say, say em' now."

I said them five years ago, you son of a bitch.

No sooner had the word "fishes" left the other kid's lips, R.J. sprung himself shoulder-first at his foe. With his sight hindered, he'd need to rely on his remaining senses more than ever. He felt the contours of an eye socket wrap around his left elbow. Tasted the bony taste of a loosened second molar before he spat it out into his opponent's face. Heard the distinctive thwack of knuckles against ribs. Smelled that cold, wet, iron smell of fresh blood in a dank cavern. Everything was a blur of pure sensory chaos and two bodies clashed blindly in the dark. It went on for some minutes, and no one had the upper hand. The combatants became messes of black eyes, cracked teeth and broken knuckles. Somewhere along the way, R.J. was flung backwards into the tunnel walls. This, ultimately, was where the tide of the battle shifted.

As R.J. placed his hand in the dirt to push himself back to his feet, he felt something. Something all too familiar to him. Something cold, metallic. Something semiautomatic. Something that had 15 9x19mm Parabellum rounds left. Something his opponent must have dropped in the struggle.

With one swift motion, he wrapped his fingers around the handle of the gun, swung it straight out in front of him, steadied his grip with his right hand, fired from the seat of his pants, and hoped he hit something.
<Mimi>: You are much nicer than I thought you'd be!
<Stark>: Shut up, fatty.
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It Knows Nothing of Whim · The Tunnels