sshhhllink- poomf

Smoke slides himself back down the ladder, landing back on the muddy ground. He begins to put the considerably large ladder away as the camera crew begin to pack up, trying to quickly depart before the storm begins to truly swell, as the lightning still crosses across the sky, sending loud booms across the city. Through the buildings and down the countless streets, no doubt stirring people from their sleep in the process.

The ladder clicks into place, folded, and ready to be slid back into the crate of which it came. And Smoke begins to do just that, stepping back a little to stand on some plank of wood that must of been sent flying from its original place after the explosion. This helps him to push the ladder with his foot, as the ground beneath is a slippery mud, which would've probably made him slip and fall over had he tried to shuffle the ladder while not on the plank of wood.

With the ladder tucked away, Smoke takes the one side of the crate he had unscrewed, and leans it back against the open space on the box, burying it slightly in the mud to keep it from falling over backwards.

The rain begins to fall so heavily that it begins to drip from the rim of his up-turned hood, splashing down onto his nose and lips. He decides it's probably best to get out of the rain. Don't want a cold to catch him up and make him fall off the ladder following a fit of sneezes. Wanting to enact this idea of his, but deciding that there is not really any rush to go anywhere, Smoke instead turns toward the out-cropping of the cliff, kicking up puddles as he makes his way to the dry underbelly of the dirt tower. Finding yet another crate, but least interested with whatever could even be inside, Smoke sits, and stares out into the dismal scene.

The sun is now high enough in the sky so that the red is all-but vanquished, with a few hues of orange noticeable here and there in the otherwise dreary, grey clouds. It is raining so heavily that it seems like Smoke's view has a noise filter placed over it, like a film would be like in the 30s or 40s, which could probably be further implied by how the cloud-infested sky has made the city a certainly noticeable hue of grey, with nice filters of brown and black filled in here and there. The white flashes in the sky do break this imagery, though. A constant reminder that the world probably shouldn't be analysed in a way that would imply that it is only one way, like it or not.

A heavy gale of wind sends a flurry of raindrops careening into Smoke's natural 'shelter', spitting wildly in his eyes and face, causing him to instinctively put his arm in the way to shield his eyes, which only makes the droplets fling into his sensitive fingers and palm. But stop, the onslaught does.

kraka-booomm

That was a pretty violent strike. Perhaps one that had hit a building or something. Smoke clenches his hand for a second and lowers it--


A chill runs up Smoke's spine. That figure was not there when he had raised his arm. He sits there looking at it, not one-hundred percent sure of what it is, or how it got there. But the shock has his mind racing, coming up with all these weird reasons and making him regret every life choice he ever made ever.

And it seems like the silhouette is just getting larger. Whoever it is is coming closer, and probably toward Smoke. Taking deep breaths, Smoke thinks over to himself about how he's probably just panicking, about how he could probably just deal with it anyway. Smoke used to have a problem with quickly becoming paranoid, particularly in his teenage years. In a way, you could say that still applies to this day, although really only when he's in a really tight spot. His uncertainty and how suddenly he had been startled, coupled with how he's running quite a precarious gambit right now within the wrestling realms must have triggered this in him.

It seems like the approaching person is staggering somewhat. Limping a little, and hobbling along the empty lot, struggling to overcome what Smoke can assume is small crates, boxes, and other 'obstacles'. He sighs. It's quite apparent that the person is headed toward him, and there's more than likely no way to get away from this situation. At one point or another he'll have to confront this person, and he might as well do it now. Smoke stands, making sure that whoever it is sees him - if he hadn't seen him already. And he waits. And waits. And waits.

The figure comes more into view, and Smoke can see it - or rather him - for who he really is. It seems like a raggedy-clad man, shaggy in appearance with a dirty brown blazer, unkempt white hair, and what seems to be an acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder and against his back. The man looks up from trying to avoid the muddy puddle and sees Smoke. Not with a look of surprised-shock, but rather a look of disgust and displeasure. Smoke catches himself shaking his head and sighing, as if this short, hobbled man is but a child who tried to make a paper airplane, that ultimately came up short and plummeted to the ground.

The man reaches Smoke, with a wide-eyed expression, speaking almost immediately.

Who the hell are you?

Judging by his clothes, body composure, filth, and lastly his stressed, withered voice, Smoke comes up with the easily found presumption that this man is homeless.

Me? I'm nobody.

Nobody!? A nobody wouldn't just wind up here where an explosion had happened last night, just one or two hours ago. My guessing is that you caused all this. Or if you didn't, you came here looking for trouble anyway, no doubt.

His voice is not that of an old or elderly man. It sounds mainly dehydrated, with a dry tongue and a throat that must feel like sandpaper. Regardless of this man's obviously angry mannerism, Smoke manages to chuckle to himself, being quite lighthearted with him.

Okay, you got me. I caused this whole commotion last night.

The man snorts in disapproval, beginning to pace back and forth in front of Smoke, mumbling and sputtering what sounds like gibberish to himself. He comes to an abrupt and sudden stop, maybe as if he is standing to attention to a sergeant in the army... if Smoke could ever be a sergeant. His tone of voice, however, seems to be pleading and sobbing...

Do you realise what you have done!? What you managed to do!?

A feeling boils a little in Smoke's stomach, a brewing sensation that one would usually associate with guilt.

What I've done?

The man hunches over and looks down at his feet, and perhaps Smoke's too. His voice changes to that of sorrow.

You've destroyed it. You've obliterated every last bit of it.

...Every last bit of what?

shove

It appears that the man is stronger than Smoke might have taken him for, managing to push Smoke away so that he struggles to keep his foothold in the already uneven ground.

My home! ...Or what used to be my home. Now just a sprawl of wooden planks and... and broken livelihoods.

Smoke looks up at the man, and sees tears welling in his eyes.

Look... I'm sorry I- I did have a look around before I did what I did. Just to be sure something like that wouldn't happen but I--

I guess you were wrong.

...Yeah... Yeah I guess I was.

Why me, huh? Why pick on me?

His voice seems all the more angrier now, as if trying to pick a fight, or at least blame someone or get them vexed. Smoke looks up defensively.

What!?

I said: Why me!?

Why you!? I already told you, I had no damn idea! I thought nobody lived here and, yeah, I thought wrong. But I had no. Damn. Idea it was your home!!

WAS! And now, because of you, I have nothing! NOTHING! This is entirely your fault.

But I didn't mean to--

Enough!! You wanna know where I was last night!? At the homeless shelter. I wanted to be warm for a change. I wanted to feel good during Christmas! Does that mean nothing to you!? Do you like seeing a man less-fortunate than you suffer!?

That is not my damn fault! How the hell was I supposed to know you were there, huh!? I was under the assumption that nobody lived here. At all. And now you're putting this all on me!? Screw you!!

Sure, wipe your own cock-ups onto the others. Lie to yourself about how it wasn't your fault, no matter who's lives you ruin along the way! Does it feel good to lie to the homeless, boy? Does it feel good to shout at them!?

You were the one who started this!!

The man buries his hand into his pocket, chuckling as he does. Much like an insane and twisted criminal.

Did I? I suppose I should end it, then.

His arm pulls out of his pocket to reveal--


Whoa-what the fuck!?

The man's hand is shaking wildly. Clearly he has lost it.

You ruin my life, do ya!? Well then I'm going to ruin your's back! With just one bullet!

Clearly.

Hold still, now-

With no time to think, Smoke reacts on instinct. He dodges to one side as--


While the man fiddles around with the reload, Smoke doesn't think twice before reacting once more, although perhaps this option is a little more stupid than he thought, and probably deserved a little more thinking time.

He runs up to the man and tries to yank the gun away from him, but his grip is stronger than expected, grabbing onto the handle as he presses in the bullet, leaving Smoke to keep a hold of the barrel.

With a sudden jerk, Smoke's hand is forced to let go of the barrel, and in the confusion, the man takes sloppy aim, squeezing his finger...

But Smoke is able to smack it away - and this time it flies out of the man's hand... But his finger is still caught on the trigger--


AARGH!!

The finger had still managed to squeeze the trigger as the barrel was facing Smoke's shoulder, sending a bullet tearing through his muscle, resulting in that cry for pain--

AAH-AH-AH-OWW!!

Considering he has a fucking bullet in his shoulder, it's quite reasonable that he shouts in pain. But unfortunately, his torment does not stop there, as the ordeal isn't quite over.

Realising this, Smoke wrenches his eyes back open and looks around. Everything's a blur. Everything's stings. All that Smoke can hear is a high-pitched squeal, ringing in his ear with no stop. It's the first time he had ever been shot, and was not having fun getting used to the experience.

Regardless, accepting how it is truly a life-or-death situation, Smoke forces himself to focus, he can see a blurry-brown-blob dashing about, hunched over. In this semi-conscious state, Smoke realises it's the man, who is probably trying to find his gun.

As his vision clears, Smoke sees that the man is pottering about where Smoke had hit the gun away. His short amount of time was just about to get shorter. He looks around, looking for one last hope to ensure he gets away from this whole fiasco.

And there he sees it - a large, large knife. He doesn't know why it's there, and he doesn't bother to question it, because it's already in his hand.

He turns back around, and suddenly the man is towering over him, pinning him down and pointing the cold tip of the barrel directly onto Smoke's forehead.

Time to put you down you son of a--


A cough of blood is sent into Smoke's face, and the man collapses to one side.

Smoke looks over and sees his face. Pale, shocked.

Dead.

In the centre of the man's chest is a knife. A very, very bloody knife. The one that Smoke had just been holding.

Breathing heavily, through a mix of shock, horror, and what had just transpired, Smoke sits up and looks at his hands.

Bloody. Completely bloody.

He looks over his shoulder, over to the corpse.

He just killed someone. Not even a somebody. A nobody. A nothing.

But as Smoke's mind still tries to overcome that fact, he's still somewhat overcome in the heat of the moment. And all Smoke can think of is to say--

Merry Christmas. Asshole.