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Learned something from yesterday.; Don't mind me ma'am - just here to collect my six iron. (Hansel Oneshot)
Topic Started: Mar 8 2014, 07:47 PM (422 Views)
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Southern motherfuckin' democratic republicans.
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Bag in hand, he waited for the train to arrive. The bench he was on was cold and deserted, the uncomfortable plastic digging into the seat of his pants, making him shift fairly frequently as he attempted to get comfortable. The bag in his hand was small and heavy - dark red, like his shirt, carrying just the bare necessities he’d need for his trip. He wasn’t sure exactly how long he had been waiting for the train, just that it had been long enough to be incredibly annoyed that it hadn’t yet arrived.

“They don’t really like those aboard,” said a voice.

He looked up, his eyes coming into contact with bright green, a mole on the left cheek, small nose. The boy was smiling, hands in his pockets as he stared down the tracks, a dreamy expression on his face.

“Beg your pardon?” he said.

The green eyed boy nodded towards the red bag. “Those. They aren’t totally accepted.”

“They aren’t allowed?”

“Ehh, they probably wouldn’t stop you from bringing it aboard. It’s small enough to not get in the way, right?”

He glanced down at it, hefted it, the weight suddenly seeming unreasonably hard to lift. “Yeah, shouldn’t.”

“You’re probably okay.”

He nodded as the green eyed boy smiled again, reaching to rub at the back of his neck awkwardly, kicking at the pavement with a white tennis shoe.

“Hey, you play soccer at all?”

The question caught him off guard. “What?”

“Soccer. You ever play?”

He shook his head, slowly. The green eyed boy’s smile faded a little, his shoulders shrugged, eyes still staring down the tracks.

“Oh, hey, sorry. Didn’t think there was anyone else-”

“You can’t bring that on the train.”

He blinked, shifting to look at the girl who had marched up, hands on her hips, to interrupt his conversation with the green eyed boy. The girl’s eyes were large and dark blue, her tan accentuated by her short, dark brown hair.

“Yeah, we were just-” he began, pointing towards the green eyed boy.

But the boy was gone. Before he could squint to see where he had gone, the girl bent lower, obscuring his vantage point until all he could see was a dented nose and those eyes - staring down the tracks, where the green eyed boy had watched.

“Didn’t hear me? You can’t bring it. It’s too big.”

“What? It’s tiny.” Though the bag was feeling far too heavy. Carefully, he set it down on the bench beside him, flexing his fingers from the strain.

“Doesn’t matter. Look, I’ve seen a few people get on in front of me, and anytime they had one of those, they had to leave it behind.”

“I can’t leave it behind,” he said, glancing down at the bag, “because I need it.”

“What, you got gold in there?”

“No, just essentials.”

The blue eyed girl let out a huff of breath, rolling her eyes at the distance, where the track was swallowed by a dark tunnel. “Whatever. I’m just filling you in on what I heard.”

There was a stretch of silence, disrupted by the repeated tapping of the blue eyed girl’s shoe on the pavement. After a time, she spoke again.

“You have pretty bad arches, you know.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Arches?”

“Yeah. Balls of your feet. You should get ‘em operated on - otherwise you’ll never be able to play.”

Now, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Play?”

“Okay,” she said slowly, exaggerating the word as if speaking to an obstinate child, “Hospital, then tennis.”

He stared at her blankly for a moment, shook his head. “You’re not making any-”

“Waiting for it to arrive?”

A thin, shorter boy, with grey-blue eyes and messy brown hair lounged beside him, leaving the bag between them.

“Yeah, I-” he turned to find the girl, but she, too, was gone.

“It’s probably going to be a while,” said the brown haired boy, lounging in his seat. He pointed down at the bag, curiosity colouring his expression.

“S’at yours?”

He nodded, slowly. “I already know that I’ll have trouble bringing it.”

“Well, they don’t mind it sometimes. But it looks pretty heavy.”

He lifted a shoulder, dropped it. “I need it to come with me, so I’ll be taking it on the train.”

“Sure, sure,” said the boy. Silence descended again as they sat with the red bag between them. After a time, the boy stretched and stood, his eyes on the dark tunnel down the tracks.

"I'll take first watch." The boy said, easily.

All he could do was nod at the boy, dismissive.

The stunted conversation was interrupted by an echoing dragging sound, reverberating around the station. As he searched for the noise, his head whipping around in all directions, the boy with the brown hair vanished.

Suddenly, the bench he was seated on caved, falling inward around the bag as he was lurched to his feet. It was a twisted V of plastic and metal, crushed together as if hit by a brutal force.

In the center of it all sat the red bag.

“The fuck are you doing here?”

A black haired boy stared at him, arms folded, a similar small black bag to his own cuffed around his wrist.

“I’m waiting for the train,” he said, glaring at the boy. He didn’t like this boy. Something about him-

“With that?” the black haired boy said, pointing at the bag that had destroyed the bench.

“Yes,” came his irritable response.

“You’re an idiot, then.”

“Look, I’ve been told by everyone in this place so far that I can’t take my bag on the train. There isn’t any sign or anything that I can’t. Do you know from personal experience or something?”

“Nope!” came the reply from the black haired boy.

“Then why-”

The boy was gone. He sighed in frustration, slamming his hands against his thighs, crossing his arms, unfolding them, pacing slightly as he waited, waited, waited.

“You coming?” came the voice of a boy with a goatee, dressed completely in white.

He stared at the goatee-adorned boy, stared back at the little suitcase. “Aren’t you going to give me shit about that?”

The boy in white rolled his eyes. “Why would I care what you bring?”

“Everyone else seems to think you would.”

The boy in white shrugged a shoulder, scratching at the back of his neck. A pair of gloves, dangling from a chain around the boy’s throat, peeked from under the white suit jacket, hiding the shiny silver tie from view. “No skin off my nose, man.”

He stared at the boy, a frown on his face. The boy smirked back.

“Tell you what, man. You carry that on in here, and you can take it with you.”

But he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. The bag was too heavy to lift. It had destroyed the bench under its weight, even.

“Well? What’s it going to be?”

“Fuck you.”

The boy in white laughed. “Look, I don’t know what they told you on the platform, but it’s almost definitely untrue. The advice they gave only takes on a life if you allow it to.”

He stared at the boy in white, still and watchful.

“So,” the boy in white said, drawing the vowel out, “are you coming?”

He scowled. Squeezed a fist. Took two steps back.

“Alright,” the boy in white said, the doors to the train car closing.

“Your loss.”


((Hansel Williams, Fill your hand, you son of a bitch.))

Hansel found the P90 right where the announcement had said; in one of the four school buses with the steaming tray of lasagna right near it. He had left Andi waiting for him while he had left to go secure the gun - and the food - with the promise of sharing both with her.

Carefully, he peeled back the lid of the lasagna, and closed his eyes as he inhaled, the teasing scents of tomato sauce blended imperceptibly with the beef, delicately strewn with seasonings and teased with a hint of garlic and melted cheese. Carefully, he dipped a pinky finger into the mixture, licked it off of his fingernail.

For the first time in six days, a genuine smile bloomed across Hansel’s face as he slid to sit, his knees bent as he rested his back against the beaten up, ripped to shreds seats of the bus. Carefully, he unwrapped the plastic fork and knife set - complete with little paper napkin - and set the styrofoam container on his lap.

The first cut released a stream of steam into the air, the scent doubling as tomato sauce, cheese, and meat splurged over the white plastic, darkening it as it dragged through the pasta. Hansel stabbed it gently with his fork once he had a small cube, lifted it to his mouth, and closed his eyes as the explosion of flavour on his tongue played havoc with his senses - a wonderful medley of decadent tastes filling his mouth, the heat warming his teeth, coating his tongue, sliding slowly down his throat.

He sighed. He smiled. He chuckled a little, a short, choked sound that was muffled under his breath as he sliced into the lasagna again.

He ate and kept eating until a quarter of it was in his stomach, and felt satisfied with nourishment for the first time in six long days.

Then, he covered the lasagna up. Re-wrapped the used fork and knife. Dabbed at his face with the napkin.

He put the SMG into his duffel bag, and, with one arm secured around the lasagna tray and the FAMAS strap around the other, he set off to find Andi again.

((Hansel Williams, All Battles Are Fought By Scared Men Who'd Rather Be Some Place Else))
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