If God Was In Hell We Would All Be Dead [OPEN | MINGLE]

[inconsequence]

Who: Who wants to kill some slavers? You do! Of course you do!
When: May 15th and onwards
Where: Slave trade outpost in the Runoff
What: The slavers that targeted the crew of the Moira in July are overdue for some justice. Chara breaks some regulations to make that happen. THIS IS A MINGLE LOG; anyone and everyone who wants to get in on this and kill some slavers is absolutely free to do so! Chara is relying on there being some chaos for this to work.
Warnings: PROBABLE DEATH. Probable references to slavery, trauma, and also death. Chara.


The Ingress opens to a spilling wash of gray and white, a monochrome cast of shadows and hard angles. The Runoff, it seems, is not a place of many colors; every inch of it is drab and washed out, cold and impersonal as the people who would employ such a place for their own twisted ends. A swirled nebula of stars glimmers overhead. It is night.

Knives are useful tools, but their reach is limited. A quiet transmission to the network, a select few messages delivered to a select few individuals, the hissing strike of a match igniting on the edge of a box. The place is angular and looks to be comprised of some sort of galactic equivalent of asphalt, likely inflammable. Still, it is entirely too dark. Too gray. Too poorly maintained. Tents and shabby establishments line the streets, places where, evidently, personal agency may be bought and sold on a whim.

It does not take long to find a structure of cloth and wood, and the whole of it soon emanates the rank, coppery tang of some interdimensional brand of gasoline.

Knives are useful tools. But they did not come with knives.

Or rather, they did not come only with knives.

One of the stalls is alight in a matter of moments. Red and gold tongues of flame gobbling the establishment whole, filling the place with both the color and light that it so lacked. Knobs of wood harvested from the wreckage form handy torches to set anything else aflame, to thoroughly raze the entire area to the ground, every stall and ship and vendor that supported and enabled the inflorescence of slave trafficking and slave keeping. Armed guards begin to converge on the disturbance at once. But small as said disturbance is, there is no guarantee that it will not come to grow.

That is, of course, where you come in.

One child alone cannot possibly take the entire place down, and flame can only take things so far. It is hardly enough when their aim is one of total destruction, however unrealistic an expectation that might be. They'll need help. Lots of it.

So won't you join the dance?

Comments

kurt wagner [nightcrawler] ❧ ota ❧ cw: nasty slaver stuff

[shadowblends]

❧ my power's turned on (fire)

[Kurt's impulsive - far more than he'd ever like to admit, considering it usually gets him into trouble that he has to fight his way out of. In this case, when the coordinates are given, he's waited long enough and gathered plenty of information about these slavers that he can't ignore the fact they'd captured Moirans-- people that he knew in this case.

He uses the smoke of the fire to his advantage, teleporting between the rolling smog and licking flames, intentions deadly, if the weapon at his side is any indication.

It's crude, but it will get the job done.]

❧ starting right now, i'll be strong (heads will roll)

[Darting, twisting, bending, lunging-- it's all things that he's been taught before; his time during the circus had been well spent and not only with cute little tricks, but with real, purposeful fighting skills. He's lethal with the sword, swinging it in upward motions to lop off arms, dropping to all fours at some point so he can sweep the blade in an easy circle and take off legs, watching bodies crumple around him. Sometimes, he even goes for the occasional head, watching it tumble away like a weed in the wind. They're the lucky ones.

Most people might let the others suffer, but Kurt is more humane in all sense of the word. He never wastes time lording his victory over them, preferring to stab or slice into a vital part of the body and let them be ended quickly and once they have perished from exsanguination, he moves on to others without fail.

There might be a chance where he does stop, although it's simply to help out anyone he might recognize during the fight.]

❧ i've still got a lot of fight left in me (captured)

[And it only takes one time for him to slip up before he's caught.

It's not a large group, but they're enough to overpower him, knocking the weapon from his hand and grabbing him from behind. He struggles any way that he can, kicking out with his strong legs and even going as far as snapping at them with his teeth if they get close enough. Imagine the man's surprise when he clamps down on his throat, applies enough pressure to tear flesh off, screeching and spitting like a wild animal with a thirst for blood.

There's an agonized cry, a spiteful shout of 'you little shit!' and Kurt can't fight the smirk that lifts his lips. That is, until something loops around his neck, effectively cutting off oxygen fast enough that he begins to see stars.

'Not so tough when you can't breathe, are you?'

Ruby-red irises dilate, the effort it takes to fight becoming two-fold, considering the slavers have taken advantage of that long appendage by wrapping it around the blue boy's neck. How screwed up can someone be to use the kid's tail against him like that?

He struggles for breath, feet stretching for the ground in an attempt to slacken the makeshift noose around his neck. They're taller than he is and things are starting to get dark and muddled, a sign the air loss is beginning to set in, no matter how much he fights it. He's able to break an arm free, reaching up to clutch at the trunk of muscle and pull, but to no avail.

The man that he'd bitten grabs up the sword, shouting something that makes the other two hold him tighter, forcing his fingers against his neck to keep that hand in place as well. His eyes somehow widen even more as the tip of the blade is pressed against his abdomen and slowly forced forward, sinking easily past the skin, heading toward muscle, intent on running him through, although it won't include anything vital. They want him to hurt, but he has to stay alive for profit.

He doesn't have to see their faces to know they're smiling.

It can't end this way!]

❧ wildcard

[ooc: if none of the other options tickle your fancy 8')]

capture; why are you children like this

[el_paso]

[ And it won't, because one of the outermost men suddenly gurgles, as a set of adamantium claws emerge and disappear from his throat in a wet 'snikt'. Logan pushes him forward as he scrabbles at the wound, the blood running thick and hot into his shirt, and uses the man as a shield against his allies, darting and stabbing, rending and ducking, until that sword comes at him.

The bitten man has too much to say as he swings the sword wildly, trying to be clever, hoping for a hit. Logan has no patience for this shit- he catches the blade in his claws, bringing the slaver in closer, and slams his forehead into the man's nose, shattering cartilage and bone with a sound that thrills him.

Kurt's big, meaty assailant, the one who's using the boy's tail as a garrote, watches his compatriot fall. He drops Kurt like a sack of potatoes, turns tail, and runs like the devil's on his tail. ]

Get up.

because we're dumb impulsive teenagers???

[shadowblends]

[Thank God, Kurt is shorter than the rest of them; he starts when claws emerge through the slaver's neck, mere inches away from his own face. Blood spatters across his cheek, frantic iridescent eyes darting from the man's gushing wound to Logan as he uses the enemy like a meat-shield. The left side of his face quirks in an unusual show of amusement, his newly freed arm shifting to drop an elbow into his other captor's stomach, which seems to have no effect.

He begins to squirm with a newfound vigor, only pausing at the sickening crunch from another one of Logan's victims when he cracks him in the face after the guy has swung the sword at him. If he'd had the breath, he might have laughed, but even when he's finally released, he hits the ground on his hands and knees, coughing and gasping for breath.

It takes him a moment to regain full awareness and the voice that demands for him to get to his feet is not a kind one. To be honest, he's terrified to look up and see Logan's expression right away, so to give him just the slightest bit of extra time, he reaches to pick up the sword that'd been dropped before tentatively moving to stand.

His free hand raises to touch the bruising at his neck then he draws his gaze from the ground, chest still heaving as he finally looks at his savior. For some reason, Kurt purses his lips together, mouth ringed in rust-colored blood, the hand he'd lifted before dropping to cup over the hole in his stomach.] ... thank you, [he murmurs, voice hoarse and timid, like he'll be the next one to go down.

Seriously, what else can he say?]

he's too old for this shit

[el_paso]

Save it.

[ His shirt's already ruined, so it's no effort to shred it a bit further, and Kurt gets his hand pulled aside, a wad of soft flannel pressed none too gently to his wound. Logan replaces the boy's hand, stern and severe. ]

You're gonna bamf your way back to the Ingress and return to the complex. Or- [ He takes Kurt by one of his pointy blue ears, directing his head in close, ] -I get to explain to Chuck why I left you here. And I can be very persuasive.

fdsjkg poor logan :c

[shadowblends]

[Falling silent is probably his best decision in this case.

He allows Logan to maneuver his hand aside, gritting his teeth and releasing a hiss at the pain then huffing once his own palm is returned to apply pressure with the strip of fabric. Kurt spares a glance at the injury before bringing his attention back up to the older mutant.]

But I-- [he unexpectedly cuts off when Logan grabs onto his ear, eyes widening once again as he's tugged in. Did that really just happened? Had they not been in the situation they were, he might have said something a little more inappropriate.] You can't expect me to abandon these people! Besides, what if they have others we know?

[el_paso]

You are bleeding.

[ A snarl, as he tugs again on Kurt's ear. ]

You're no good to anyone dead. Go.

[ Logan releases him with a firm push before he turns away. ]

[shadowblends]

Your point?

[He huffs this time, baring his teeth and reaching up to briefly encircle Logan's wrist.]

I'm not--

[But the other male releases him and Kurt takes a step back after relinquishing his own grip, nose wrinkled and lips pursed with irritation. Fine, he'll go, although it's only in the opposite direction, until he gets the chance to teleport back into the fray when Logan is unaware.

Sorry, old man, but he can't just take off now.]

let's not get a(head) of ourselves

[inconsequence]

[They've no notion of what he might be - undoubtedly not human, though they cannot truly say if he counts as a monster, either. Whatever he is, he's more than capable of handling himself in a FIGHT, twisting and maneuvering about the battlefield with a deftness and grace Chara cannot help but envy. They're little more than a prepubescent child cutting at the ankles of adults with an abnormally sharp blade, but no matter how just their intentions, they will never be anything more than that.

A disembodied head rolls across the red-soaked floor as Chara bats it aside with one foot, ducking low to avoid the harsh stutter of gunfire as one of the guards opens fire in their direction. Knives are useful tools, as frequently they've stated, but their reach is somewhat - limited.

They'll have to get closer to the guard to eliminate it, and at the moment, all they can do is scramble to get behind some cover before a bullet perforates something vital.]

[shadowblends]

[Even with all that finesse, there are still moments where the teleporter overestimates, misses his target and ends up having to backtrack, getting up close and personal to ram the blade through someone's ribcage. He's vicious and unmindful with who he's attacking; if they look like a slaver, they are cut down without shame. A slave? Kurt goes ahead to free them, urging them to flee while they still have the chance.

Thankfully, most of them do.

He pivots on the ball of his foot, slinging blood and other carnage from the blade, effulgent irides darting across the span of ground before him then averting to Chara. It's them; the child he'd spoken to over the network about this entire thing, but before he has a chance to call out, the rapid rat-a-tat-tat of gunshots captures his attention.

There's a quick jerk of his head, a motioning gesture toward the gunman. 'I'll cover you,' is what he silently tells them. Then, with all the fleet footed agility of a large cat on the hunt, Kurt sheathes the blade to his back, drops low onto all fours and rushes forward, teleporting in a zig-zag pattern to draw the fire to himself.]

[inconsequence]

[Whatever weaponry they're using, it appears to be rooted enough in gunpowder-based technology to burn the air with the scent of cordite rather than something plasmic or some other poorly defined energy-based projectile. The smoke and stench waters at their eyes, rimming the already scarlet irises in red.

The clatter of spent shell casings showering the ground, and the guard has to stop to palm a fresh magazine, slapping it into the weapon's base. A continuous tone drills into their ears. The memory of a gun cracking in through fused flesh and fur, spraying dust in all directions, Asriel's tense, quiet panic, the way he'd held them down and insisted that they couldn't, that they wouldn't, that there would be no point -

The blue man inclines his head in the gunman's direction. Don't throw a fit now, Chara. Don't lose focus now. He rockets out from behind cover, and they peel away at the opposite direction, far clumsier, feet slapping the ground with a spray of dust and ash.

Spurts of bullets kick up a crooked sine wave in the dust. They aim for the guard's center, but he swings the barrel of the gun up to counter. The blade digs into the worked metal, shearing it nearly in half, but the man simply plants a foot in the center of the child's chest and thrusts them back.]

[shadowblends]

[A few of the shells ping off the ground next to him when he reappears at one point, causing the cobalt-tinted mutant to yelp in response, but he doesn't slow down. Hesitating - if even for a moment - could mean certain tragedy and Kurt's not ready to die today.

In fact, he increases the pace of his approach, eyes narrowed in irritation, both at the dirt being kicked up around them from the battle and in reaction to the man continuing to fire. From his peripheral, he can spot Chara rushing forward, which earns the slightest smirk; their plan had worked and if they continued moving forward, they'd be able to--

Kurt's eyes widen at the sight of the little one being forced back, sharp teeth gritting together, hands and feet pounding, carrying him faster and faster. The man turns the gun, readying to fire and is greeted by a scarred forehead straight to the nose that momentarily stuns him.

Again, he raises the weapon, but the demon-eyed boy is ready with a swift kick to the knee. It doesn't break, although it's something that makes him cry out and it's followed up by an elbow to the chest (to make him bend), then a closed fist slams into the underside of his neck to rattle some teeth. He turns to check on them, chest heaving.] Are you--

[Except he's cut off by a hand at his throat, clenching around his windpipe and lifting him onto his toes. He clutches at a wrist with one hand, reaches the other out to swipe with deadly claws, but comes up short. It's a perfect opportunity for Chara, though.]

[inconsequence]

[Adrenaline, thankfully, is an adequate substitute for genuine strategy. Difficult to muscle through, but - but better, they know, than simply waiting for an objective improvement. The guard's kick sends them sprawling across the ash and dust, rolling to their feet in an abrupt pull of movement. The guard's hand snaps around the blue man's throat. Holding him, lifting him -

The child launches forward, and the Knife, they sink the Knife into the guard's back, past the Kevlar-like armor he wears like a carapace, plunging in all the way to the hilt. It cleaves through it all so easily, and that's not enough, it's not nearly enough. Twist it, use it - break him. Be the force of nature, the powerful, destructive, chaotic thing you are, rip him to pieces, ha ha!

The guard's back arches as he makes a strangled sound of belated realization. The Knife comes out, and scissors back in. Out, and in, again and again - ]

[shadowblends]

[By the time the guard realizes he's being stabbed, the teleporter's vision is swimming with small cones of light, stable thought process on the verge of decreasing before the grip on his throat starts to loosen at a substantial rate.

Kurt lands on his feet with ease, despite the fact his brain is still slightly muddled. There is a momentary stumble when he backpedals, but he rights himself as soon as he sees the sentry reach for the child again. His protective nature kicks in and out of sheer instinct, he goes for the sword at his back, swings it around and runs the blade in a swift, clean slice across their attacker's neck.

Crimson spurts, thick and hot down his front, staining him from chin to abdomen. He blinks rapidly while this happens, scrutinizing the way light leaves his eyes during the bleed out then drawing back a little quicker than he intends to. Although, he does this man a favor by guiding him to the ground and straightening himself once he's sure he will be steady on his feet.

Then, he turns back to Chara,] ... are you okay? [he repeats and finishes, eyes frantically scanning them for any injuries.]

so many heads are rolling right now

[frankensteinian]

[It hadn't taken much to get Erik to decide to come here; pretty much the mention of enslaved children and the opportunity to fight had done it. He had at least thought to bring a knife with him as a weapon, not having access to anything else in a hurry.

He's been slowly making his way through the crowd, sending his knife flying into the fleshy parts of some slavers, sending other slavers flying through the air into each other (they shouldn't be carrying metal if they didn't want to make it easy for him) when he finds himself standing by Kurt.

He holds his hand extended until the knife flies back into it; he clutches it for a moment while he looks at Kurt.]

You go that way, I'll go that way.

yes, they are. 8')

[shadowblends]

[With a quick swing of the sword, blood streaks the loose dirt beneath his feet, rising up in awful, rust-colored pockets. He hardly spares them a glance before he catches another man running toward him from the corner of his eye, the edges of his lips curling in a wicked little smirk.

Someone else appears at his side and Kurt turns toward them, eyebrows raising in bewilderment at the sight of Erik, knife in hand, looking ready to do some slaughtering of his own. (Even though it would seem he's already done quite a bit of it.) Directions are not what he's expecting; he'd figured his fellow mutant would tell him to hit the bricks, go back to the mansion and leave the fighting to the adults, but imagine his surprise when it's the exact opposite.

He nods his head in understanding and raises his own blade, the atrocious cruelty spreading across his face like wildfire as he steels himself.

With vociferation, he shouts and lunges toward the slaver as soon as he's close enough, swinging the blade in an upward arc - from shoulder to hip in an attempt to slice him wide open.]

[frankensteinian]

[It's probably becoming more apparent to everyone by the day just why Erik and Charles had their falling out; they don't seem to share many opinions in common. Suffice it to say there's a reason that Erik's not a teacher back in the world they come from. Sometimes 'let them be themselves' can go a little too far.

At any rate, he has no interest in stopping Kurt, and after what he witnessed on Deslora, he has a guess as to why Kurt's here. It seems to him that Kurt ought to be able to react to that how he wants to.

Most might prefer a longer blade, but in Erik's case that would just get in the way as he sends it flying through the air in the direction of the fleshy parts of another slaver.]

[shadowblends]

[To be fair, he's practiced fencing techniques since he was small and while this may be his first time using them in actual combat, Kurt doesn't exactly have a reason to hold back. So, maybe he's imagining a couple of the men he's slaughtered as the people that'd treated him poorly back in Berlin, but these men were not innocent of any wrongdoings either.

Slavers (of children, nonetheless) did not deserve to be treated kindly.

The guard's torso splits with ease, causing him to backpedal a few paces to avoid being sprayed by the carnage that unfolds before him. He stares, wrinkles his nose then averts his attention to another sentry that's headed toward them, his fingers gripping tighter around the handle of his weapon.]

It's your turn, [he breathes, ruby-tinted irises glinting with disdain as he leaps toward the approaching man.]

[frankensteinian]

[Erik steps away again, in the direction of more of the slavers, coming on them. The line of them seems endless, but there must be an end somewhere. There is not an infinite number of their foes.

The knife flashes through the air a few more times, leaving more bodies behind it. One of the slavers gets too close to Erik, despite the knife, and goes flying through the air, knocking a pair of other slavers over as well.

He's hardly paying attention to Kurt's presence anymore.]

[shadowblends]

[Again, the blade glides with ease across another soldier's chest, slicing him open in a horizontal fashion all in one go. He falls and another rushes up in his place, only to be cut down by the blue boy, who's far quicker than many of these slavers can even react.

It should come as no surprise that Kurt's somewhat distracted, intrigued by the way Erik wields the knife with such grace and how smoothly he strikes down any of the enemies that get too close. He's envious, there's no doubt about that, but he's also frightened.

None of them stand a chance against Erik, himself included.

He returns to the task at hand just as one of the guards approaches, swinging the butt of his gun out and up into the side of Kurt's face. For a moment, he's stunned, although it doesn't take him too long to recover and make quick work of that man, too, before he gets the chance to shoot at them.]

my power's turned on

[carltoaction]

[Impulsiveness is something they say all youth share, and in this instance it's true. Carl, like Kurt, has come to put a stop to the slavers in his own way. He intended to capture them and turn them in, but the circumstances quickly get out of control forcing him to count on his gun for protection. He has it out, held up, finger just off the trigger for if he actually needs it.

With the smoke thickening though, his sight and depth perception make it harder for him to feel confident in knowing whats around the corner, so he moves slow, becoming hypervigilant of everything. He can't say how he spies anything when a second ago he swore nothing was there, but his senses soon pick up the slightest shine of a blade and he reacts the only way he knows. Pointing his gun in that direction as the weapon, not person, becomes clearer.]

Don't move, don't do anything stupid, and I won't shoot.

[shadowblends]

[This isn't his initial introduction to a gun, but it is his first time coming almost face to face with a barrel being pointed at him by someone he knows, especially someone he considers a friend. Not that he can tell right away.

Shock registers clear on his face, iridescent eyes widening and his mouth falling open with a surprised gasp. The sword falls from his grasp, clattering loudly once it hits the ground, both of his hands raising in a show of surrender. Bullets had been the only thing he'd actively avoided when fighting in the cages and they would continue to be something that'd make him give pause when directed toward him for years to come. That is, until he grows used to the gunfire the slavers are keen on spraying them with.

Kurt's brow furrows though, the voice becoming more clear as the familiarity of it registers.] ... Carl? [he chances, squinting through the condensing dust and smog.] No, don't shoot. I-It's me-- it's Kurt!

[carltoaction]

[Not that he can he tell right away either. It's a promising sign when the sword clatters on the ground though. Carl steps forward out of the smoke to quickly take advantage of how the slaver clearly does not want to fight, or who he thinks is a slaver at least.

With his gun still trained on the body in front of him as he gets closer, his eye narrows when the person starts to talk, half expecting some excuse to be heard for everything they've done. Some crocodile apology even. He doesn't want to hear it so his expression grows almost to that of disgust and he feels himself wanting to shout at the person to shut up. But it's not what he's expecting at all, which is why his expression widens with surprise. The voice is familiar and soon when he is close enough he realizes just who it is.]

Holy shit-- Kurt? [There is a small ounce of regret he feels in his chest for how he just scared the wits out of his friend. But there is also concern born from the feeling Kurt maybe-- no definitely was less experienced than he is seeing as how he was easily startled. Carl knew he shouldn't be here. It was too much of a risk.] What are you doing here? It's dangerous. [He voices very pointedly, pointing his gun down.]

[shadowblends]

[Slavers with swords and knives are far easier to take down than those with the guns. Thanks to his time in the fight club, he knows of people who 'shoot first, ask questions later,' but he seems to be in luck-- this person aiming a gun at him gives him marginal space to interject his alarmed response, sparing him from being shot when it's revealed that Carl is on the other end of the weapon.]

Oh, my goodness. You have no idea how happy I am that it's you! [If the relieved laugh passing his lips is any indication. He bends to scoop the sword up, sliding it into place in the sheath on his back. 'Dangerous' seems like an understatement at this point, but the fact that Carl is here tells him that his decision to come and help out his friends that might have chosen to fight was a correct one.] I should ask you the same thing, [he counters, sparing the younger boy a glance as he wipes the blood from his hands onto the front of his pants.]

It's simple, really. I saw the post from the child on the network, gathered more information about the situation then decided that I would come and help free the slaves. That, or at least protect my friends that are trying to. [The gun lowers and Kurt briefly flicks his gaze to the item, scrutinizing it for a long moment then returning his attention back to his fellow teen. Neither of them should be there, regardless of experiences that they have. (Or don't, in some cases.)

Either way, the two of them standing around isn't the smartest plan when there are people trying to hunt them down for profit. He reaches to carefully take hold of Carl's wrist and lead them both behind a pillar that's somehow still standing, peeking around the opposite side to check for individuals that might be waiting to ambush. With the reassurance that they're momentarily safe, he sighs in relief and focuses on Carl once more.] You're not here by yourself, right?

[carltoaction]

You're happy? I'm happy! I could have shot you. And then what I would I have done? There's no help here! [His facial expressions work through light anger but ultimately settle on a weird sense of relief. Sorry, Kurt. He just to work through all his disbelief and fear for how close a call that was. Once he's done though, he's focused on their situation again.

Kurt putting away his sword is the first thing he notices, and with his lips tugging slightly at the corners he offers advice.] You should keep that out. Anyone could jump out and surprise us. [They were still in the amidst of it all, after all. The reason he is here is actually split two goods.]

I'm here to help and to keep us out of trouble. I saw that post too and I don't know if I agree with the way the person is doing this. We'll free the slaves but we have to let the police handle the rest. Only if they won't, then we will!

[If he sounds he kind of hates thinking that, then it's because he does. But his experience with other groups, or in case WORLDS, he has to let have a part of it or else it spells trouble for Moira crews relationship with them. He's doing his best trying to get that across too.

He can't read his friend's mind when he takes his wrist, but he knows they can't stand around like targets and follows without a word. Quiet is the key in not attracting too much attention.]

Yeah. I came on my own. [That wasn't a big deal to him, was it?]

[shadowblends]

It's okay! [Er, well--] I mean, it wouldn't be okay if I got shot, but I've been learning a lot of medical stuff from my friend. There's a decent chance that I'd be able to fix the wound, even if it was only long enough to get to a hospital. [Another brief pause.] Adrien's a great teacher.

[He barely spares a glance over his shoulder, offering Carl a half-smirk then shrugging.] To be fair, I don't exactly need the sword when this [cue the heart-shaped end of his tail creeping between them] works just as well. The sword is mostly a precaution, but it's come in handy. [Way more than he'd ever thought it would back when it had first been purchased.]

My plan was always to rescue the slaves first. If the guards are willing to try and stop me, then I won't hesitate. [The way he speaks-- it's determined, yet also cold and maybe even somewhat cruel, but it's the truth. None of those slavers stand a chance should they let him get close enough to attack.] I won't intentionally instigate, though.

[Because he really is only there for the captives. As long as they stay out of his way, they'll get to live another day. He's reluctant to accept Carl's idea of letting authorities handle it, since he's not sure if many (or any) of them will want to tarnish good reputations.

Focusing on the fact Carl came alone seems like a better plan.

He wants so badly to protest, though he has no right to do so, taking into account the fact he'd also come by himself. His gaze drifts to the gun in Carl's hand, eyebrows knitting together in contemplation before he draws his attention back to the other boy's face.] ... how well can you shoot?