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The Seedy Streets of Fandom, Sunday

It had been a rainy night; it always was. The sun was up now, Gershwin supposed, though you'd never know it. No light ever got shed on these streets.

Gershwin hadn't had a lot of light in his life lately. What he had were bills in his pocket that needed paying; a sick little brother ate through cash fast.

The darkness couldn't last forever, though. He had names, he had dates. He had descriptions of faces. A few photos, a bit of eyewitnessing, and the light would shine on Fandom like never before. He would finally get his big break, maybe a job at a nice, cushy paper, and his troubles would be over.

All he had to do was get it all together.

[OOC: Open post for all your needed street-wandering! Also open to any attempted murderating of the Intrepid Reporter!]

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They're wet, dark, and dangerous, like good rum.

He probably deserves it.

Eliot stepped -- as usual -- straight out of the shadows, in this case of a side street just ahead of Gershwin.

"You had to do it, didn't you, kid." He shook his head. "You had to go and keep sticking your nose in it."

Gershwin hid his nerves in narrowed eyes and kept his head high. "Stick my nose in what?"

Never let it be said he'd stop looking for a scoop.

"That's cute," Eliot said. "Too late for denials now, kid. Shoulda shaped up when you had the chance."

"I'm in fine shape." He clutched the notebook in his pocket. "You think I'm the only one who knows?"

"I think you're the only one I got orders on." Eliot leveled Aimee, one of his twin ivory-gripped pistols, at Gershwin's head. Round here, nobody'd notice but the squirrels, and by the time they got the word out, Eliot would be back underground until his next job.

"You think nobody's gonna notice this?" he asked, not being privy to the narrative.

And in case that didn't work, "I got a kid brother I'm looking after!"

Maybe he could make it to that alley in time?

Sure, run to the alley. Nothing terrible ever happens in alleys.

"This is really going to suck for him, then," Eliot said. Everyone had a kid brother. Or a sick uncle. Or a baby girl tucked away, somewhere. "You probably shoulda been more careful with your time, then."

Alleys were dark...er! He might miss in an alley!

Steeling himself to try for a run, Gershwin set his jaw and looked as close to Eliot's eyes as he could. "Maybe you shouldn't be killing people."

Eliot Spencer didn't miss.

He tipped his head at the idea of not killing, then shrugged. "Maybe. But I'm really good at it."

Gershwin nodded, his heart in his (lovingly lit by the streetlights) throat. Then, moving as quickly as he could, he went to tackle Eliot for the gun.

Hey, he was Intrepid! Not stupid. Well, no more than called for by the narrative.

Why couldn't anyone just die with dignity?

Eliot sighed, turning with Gershwin's momentum to send the reporter into the nearby brick wall. He dropped Aimee, but that was alright, he still had Molly in reserve.

His guns were the only dames that never let him down.

Maybe they didn't want to die!

Gershwin tried to get his breath back and ignore the complaints of his back; he managed to do it long enough to grab the gun and squeeze off a shot, not even stopping to see where it went before he ran for the alley.

That lamppost would never be the same again. Poor thing.

"Fine," Eliot said. "Alley it is." He stalked after Gershwin, not even moving particularly fast, and pulled Molly from her holster.

All he needed was a halfway clean shot.

He was not going to get one! Not if Gershwin had anything to say about it. He did his best to run, his stylish but well-worn dress shoes slipping on the wet cobblestones gleaming in the rain, and tried for another shot behind him.

"You think you can kill me with my own gun?!" Eliot called, firing a shot of his own at Gershwin's feet. "Why don't you give it up, kid? You're just going to tire yourself out."

"Better tired than dead!" He tried another shot as he rounded a corner. He didn't really want to kill anyone, but better a hit man than him!

"You could stop chasing me!"

"That would be very unprofessional of me," Eliot said. "Would you stop shooting? All you're doing is damaging public property." And wasting his bullets, dammit.

"Sure!" Gershwin called back. "You drop your gun, I'll stop firing!"

Eh. He was bound to run out of bullets sooner or later. Whereas Eliot had several extra magazines on him at all times.

You never knew when you were going to get into an epic shootout.

"Okay, fine. Keep up the pointless shooting."

He couldn't give up! His brother was counting on him!

"They'll get you!" Gershwin called back desperately. "You'll never get away with - ack!"

He slipped while trying to look back over his shoulder to talk, demonstrating you should never bring a tongue to a gun fight.

"If it makes you feel better to think so," Eliot said. He caught up with Gershwin quickly and moved to use his foot to hold him down. "Are you done, now? Can we get on with it?"

"Why?" Gershwin asked. "I don't want to die! My brother's counting on me!"

Look at those lovingly filmed pleading eyes - could you really kill him?

Without flinching.

"You really should have thought of that before you decided to become a reporter in Fandom," Eliot said. "Your brother'll be fine." Or not. Honestly, Eliot didn't give a shit.

"Could you...could you make sure of that?" Gershwin asked, wide-eyed. "Please? I'm all he's got."

Ugh. Whiny bleeding heart sap, this one.

"Yeah, sure," Eliot said. "What's the kid's name?"

He could at least make sure the kid got dropped off at an orphanage. Or, you know, end up bonding with him and starting the long road from sociopathic killing to redemption. One of those.

"Foucault." Gershwin shrugged. "Mom was a mathematician."

"Adorable," Eliot said. He assumed Foucault must be some famous math guy's name; he'd sure as hell never heard of him. "Bye."

He aimed Molly and fired.

His little brother is horribly ill. Thinks he's some kind of large flamingo. *nod*

*dies laughing* *resurrects to pat the brother*

*G* Well, I had to do something with him! It was that or call Cecil the Bird Boy.

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The Seedy Streets of Fandom, Sunday

Open Streets!

Kill the reporter!

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OOC!

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