It was the headache again. The one that crept up on soundless feet like a tiger stalks its prey in the jungle. Sensed before it strikes, perhaps, but not with enough time for the victim to defend themselves.
He sat with his back flat against the wall of the pounding club, music so loud it reverberated off of said walls, could be felt moving in a person?s chest like a hard second heart. Strangely, it didn?t make the headache worse. Maybe because it couldn?t possibly get any worse, or maybe because light and noise had nothing to do with why he had it in the first place.
He cradled his head in his hands, fingers massaging the temples, as if that would alleviate anything. It wouldn?t, and he knew it, but for some reason he still did. Perhaps because pretending to do something was better than just sitting there and letting it have its way with him. Then again, he knew what he had to do to fix it.
He?d been in the middle of spinning when it had come. It hadn?t been crippling, luckily, and he?d been able to get through the track before handing off D.J. duties to one of his co-workers, escaping behind the scenes. There was still an hour left of his shift, but he knew he wouldn?t make it, didn?t have time. The pain wasn?t going to go away unless he took care of business.
One hand dropped down to the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a half-crushed pack of cigarettes. He retrieved one, and a moment later the end glowed like a little sun, and he stood. With a sigh he headed down the hall. He paused at an open doorway, sticking his head around the corner. ?Neal??
His boss propelled his wheeled desk chair backward, looking over. ?Yeah??
?I?ve got to go,? he said around the cigarette, the pale ghostly smoke wafting up toward the ceiling.
Neal seemed to understand, the blue eyes behind his expensive, lime green glasses regarding the tall man. ?Headache??
?Yup. Duty calls.?
He nodded, watching Daigh another moment and then rolled himself back toward his desk. ?Do good work.?
?Always.? Daigh?s hand tapped the side of the door and then he continued down the hall, into the employee lounge. He went to his locker, undoing the lock with ease. When he was in, his fingers dug into the black metal backing, pulling it away to reveal the hidden hollow behind it.
He pulled out a gun- a dutiful mix of matte grey and silver aluminum. A Kimber Ultra Crimson Carry II. Though small, perfect for in-close range, and it packed quite the punch. A long knife came out next, razor sharp, the blade inscribed with the Latin phrase, ?Dei Iudicium? , ?By the judgment of God.?
The gun was slid into the waistband of his pants, at the small of his back. The knife was then situated into its holder against his forearm, hidden by the sleeve of his shirt. The backing of the locker was then replaced, the door slammed shut.
He straightened, cracking his neck and then took a drag off the cigarette. Show time.
He sat with his back flat against the wall of the pounding club, music so loud it reverberated off of said walls, could be felt moving in a person?s chest like a hard second heart. Strangely, it didn?t make the headache worse. Maybe because it couldn?t possibly get any worse, or maybe because light and noise had nothing to do with why he had it in the first place.
He cradled his head in his hands, fingers massaging the temples, as if that would alleviate anything. It wouldn?t, and he knew it, but for some reason he still did. Perhaps because pretending to do something was better than just sitting there and letting it have its way with him. Then again, he knew what he had to do to fix it.
He?d been in the middle of spinning when it had come. It hadn?t been crippling, luckily, and he?d been able to get through the track before handing off D.J. duties to one of his co-workers, escaping behind the scenes. There was still an hour left of his shift, but he knew he wouldn?t make it, didn?t have time. The pain wasn?t going to go away unless he took care of business.
One hand dropped down to the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a half-crushed pack of cigarettes. He retrieved one, and a moment later the end glowed like a little sun, and he stood. With a sigh he headed down the hall. He paused at an open doorway, sticking his head around the corner. ?Neal??
His boss propelled his wheeled desk chair backward, looking over. ?Yeah??
?I?ve got to go,? he said around the cigarette, the pale ghostly smoke wafting up toward the ceiling.
Neal seemed to understand, the blue eyes behind his expensive, lime green glasses regarding the tall man. ?Headache??
?Yup. Duty calls.?
He nodded, watching Daigh another moment and then rolled himself back toward his desk. ?Do good work.?
?Always.? Daigh?s hand tapped the side of the door and then he continued down the hall, into the employee lounge. He went to his locker, undoing the lock with ease. When he was in, his fingers dug into the black metal backing, pulling it away to reveal the hidden hollow behind it.
He pulled out a gun- a dutiful mix of matte grey and silver aluminum. A Kimber Ultra Crimson Carry II. Though small, perfect for in-close range, and it packed quite the punch. A long knife came out next, razor sharp, the blade inscribed with the Latin phrase, ?Dei Iudicium? , ?By the judgment of God.?
The gun was slid into the waistband of his pants, at the small of his back. The knife was then situated into its holder against his forearm, hidden by the sleeve of his shirt. The backing of the locker was then replaced, the door slammed shut.
He straightened, cracking his neck and then took a drag off the cigarette. Show time.