Bambi Melotti's Story

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“Yeah, and how many kids do you have?”

“Five.”

“Five?! Wow!” He’s impressed, five’s a lot. “You don’t look old enough to have five kids.”

There’s a laugh, it’s a little choked. “T-the last three are triplets. David and I decided we would have one more. We wanted a girl, you know? I guess God decided we were being too picky. He gave us three. It’s funny, if you think about it.”

God.

Funny.

He smiles, and it’s not like she can see it, but it reflects in his eyes. Contacts colored brown, Quin says they’re softer that way than his usual piercing blue. Reminds people of chocolate or some shit like that. His young face makes him appear trustworthy. They figured that out pretty early on. All he has to do is cover up that one stray tattoo. Funny, how that works.

“What were you planning on doing today?” he asks, keeping his voice low, gentle. They could be talking in a coffee line, for all his body language is saying. Barely seems like she’s on her knees like this, mascara running down her face, Dylan’s gun pointed at her head. He’s peeved. Ash can practically see the steam coming out of his ears, even under his hood. It’s fine. He’s got this.

“Z-Zack, my oldest, he had a h-hard day at school... I was going to pick him up after practice. Take him to get some frozen yogurt. I-I think he’d like that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Ash says, although he honestly has no fucking clue. No one’s ever taken him to get frozen yogurt before. His eyes flash up to Dylan, and he’s sure his brother can read pout on his half covered face. Dylan’s mask is full coverage, (Ash’s only covers his nose down), but he knows the guy well enough by now to tell he’s annoyed. “I’m sure. You know what, if you go ahead and give me the phone, you might still make it.”

Her hands shake, she’s got a bruise forming under her left eye compliments of the eldest Mackenzie, and she swallows thickly. She doesn’t have to weigh her choices anymore, he’s reminded her of exactly what’s important. Slowly, she rests an iPhone in his hand. Pokemon case. Belongs to a thirteen year old, he’s sure. That’s why they didn’t catch it the first time around. She’d handed over hers, probably forgot until the last minute that she had her sons.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says kindly, and can practically feel Dylan rolling his eyes. He pushes himself up, powering the phone down, and nods as his brother grips the woman by her upper arm and drags her to where the others are. She cries, but it’s not like that’s going to stop him.

The bank is the largest one they’ve hit yet, but still moderate. Small city, small branch. It’s clean so far. Every civilians lined up, phones gone, hands in their laps, scared faces appropriately on. Lucia’s playing her part almost too well. Even Ash’s gaze flies by hers without an ounce of recognition.

Alexie’s by the door, more intimidating than him and Dylan combined. Can’t see his face either, doesn’t matter, don’t need it. He’s one goddamn scary motherfucker. He can hear Quin and Andreas in the back, filling up duffle bags full of notes. They’re fine, they’re fine. Close call is all. Bambi and Casper are outsie. They’ll be gone in just a few minutes.

He tucks the phone in his back pocket and resists the urge to run his fingers through his hair. Can’t risk taking his hood off. Too much of him shows already. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, anxious, and is just about to ask a knock knock joke to relieve the tension when he hears the sirens.

Could be an ambulance, he thinks. Could be far away. Could be anything but this.

Fuck though, he grew up in Wilmington. He knows exactly what PD sirens sound like, and he knows exactly how far away from them they are. He spins, quickly, wondering who the hell...?

The teller. She’d moved. While the were distracted. Under the desk they’d pulled her from. Ash remembers, Lucia had been in her line. Thirties probably. Pretty. Engagement ring, no wedding band. “Oh,” he breathes. “You stupid fucking bitch.”

Alexie found her at the same time and he’s across the room in two seconds flat. Ash isn’t anywhere in his path but he still fucking moves out of the way. Watches the man get a fistfull of her blond hair and jerk. If Dylan was rough, it’s nothing compared to the way Alexie drags her around like she’s a goddamn ragdoll.

He’s livid, it’s rolling off him in waves, and Ash’s own heartbeat jackrabbits so loudly he can hear it. He gets her to the middle of the room and she’s screaming and crying but however Alexie’s holding her she can’t really move. And then he sticks the barrel of a gun right between her eyes and she freezes. Like a deer in headlights. ”Please” she whispers. ”P l e a s e.”

Ash shakes his head. “You should have listened to me.”

She’s screaming again, begging, like the louder she is the higher the chance Alexie might listen to her. The man looks up, glances passed Ash to where he knows Dylan is. "Shut that bitch up.”

Alexie doesn’t hesitate. Ash closes his eyes.

The shot rings out loud enough he half wishes he would have covered his ears too. There’s a second of shocked silence, the sound of dead weight hitting the ground, and then more crying. Goddamn it.

"That’s what’s gonna fucking happen if you don’t all stay the fuck down and keep your mouths shut!” Dylan’s not yelling, but he doesn’t have to. His voice leaves no room for a goddamn argument.

Oh, he’s real anxious now. ‘Cause they’ve never had to do this before. It’s a little exciting but fuck, he hates sirens. They’re getting closer and every instinct in his body tells him to r u n, but he can’t. They’ve prepared for this.

He opens his eyes again.

Alexie’s calm, creepily so, only the tense set of his shoulders giving him away. He points his gun at everyone’s head, one at a time, mimicks the knockback as if he shot them. Ash licks his lips under his mask. He doesn’t have time to find that hot. He doesn’t.

Overdrive; he’s moving. To the front door, check the locks, secure. No word from Quin or Andreas, he’s not worried, they know the protocol. No sight of cars yet, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t coming. Dylan’s yelling. Nonsense, threats, Ash can’t make them out. Fuck. Fuck. He’s scared.

He turns around again and catches his brothers attention. Dylan’s twitchy as hell and Ash doesn’t blame him, but he nods. Once. They’re okay, they’re okay. A scream catches his attention but he doesn’t jump as he turns to where Alexie is.

He’s got some dude ground, is clocking him against the side of the head. Ash winces, it probably hurts like hell. "Shut the fuck up.” It’s not shouted either, but it’s loud enough it could have been that damn gunshot.

The guy doesn’t shut up. Ash isn’t sure what he’s saying, doesn’t hear it, but he thinks he’s a fucking idiot for still talking. Alexie will kill him. “Schas po ebalu poluchish, suka, blyad!”

The crowds getting more antsy, more people are yelling. Not the guy Alexie has though. Russian is fucking scary. (He doesn’t have time to find that hot either). Dylan gives him a hand motion and Ash nods, jerking his own cell out of his pocket. The sirens are louder, more distinct. They’re here.

He hits Bambi’s speed dial and puts the phone to his mouth. “We’re coming in hot.” Doesn’t give her time to reply, just hangs up and rushes back to the edge of the room. Cars are sliding into the parking lot. They need out.

He slides around where the safe is and sticks his head in. Quin’s still pushing shit in the bags, faster than she was before, he’s sure. Andreas catches his eye. Shakes his head.

They need more time.

“Okayokayokay, shit.” Back in the main room, Alexie and Dylan are still yelling, waving their guns around, it’s real fucking threatening. The cops are lining up, looking in, assessing. Ash checks with his brother one more time, gets another nod and a vague gesture. ”Grab that one.”

More screaming, but Ash squares his shoulders and goes where he was directed. Lucia’s goddamn talented, tears in her eyes, lower lip quivering. There’s a girl about her age sitting next to her, and they’re clamping hands and shaking their heads.

“Sorry sis,” he says, and means it, when he grabs her hair Alexie style and jerks her up. The other girl cries like he just took her daughter, and Ash pulls his own rarely used gun out of his waistband. “Shut up,” he warns, pointing it at her, and she holds her hands in surrender.

Once he’s satisfied he’s fixed that problem, the gun goes under Lucia’s chin and he makes sure the cops can goddamn see him. Rests his own chin on her shoulder and smiles. That reflects in his eyes too, he’s oh so sure of it.

Quin gives the signal and they’re backing up. Alexie’ll be the last one out, but Dylan’s sticking close to him. Lucy’s still in his arms and he isn’t being gentle but they’ve prepared for this. Plus, he might not be her gender of choice, but he knows she likes it rough. She’s fine.

He’s almost cleared. It’s right there. And then his foot goes out from under him.

Well, this is new.

What the hell is this place? White Knights Unlimited Banking?

He drops the gun, wraps his arms around his best friend, and they both hit the ground harder than intended, though his fucking bicep takes the most of it. The world spins a bit and he’s pretty sure his tongue is bleeding 'cause his teeth are sharp as hell, but there’s much more important things -

There’s a guy standing over him. With his gun. Dog tags. Fucking - they’ve got to get more observant. Ash’s hand goes around Lucia’s throat. “Put it down, man.”

“Let her go.”

Funny.

He wonders what’s going through this guys head. Save the girl, get laid? Got news for you, buddy. The guy pulls the trigger. Ash doesn't even blink. The chambers empty. Like he’d risk accidentally shooting his best girl? He goddamn grins.

“Fucking. Idiot.”

---

*credit to BartholomewFinch for Dylan Mackenzie and Ivisbo for Alexie Voklov and Wiley for trusting me with Lucy

---

Siren's have never meant anything good. A natural catalyst to disaster. But there's no calm before this storm and Dylan is raring to go. There's nothing left for him to do but chew on the facts. They're running out of time, this banks full of fucking idiots, and out of all the jobs they've ever completed he thinks that this one will wind up in the hall of fame for being the worst.

Fuck, at least he'll have the image of the teller's brains splattered across the room in his mind at the end of it. Blonde stained red - a damn good look on her. There's nothing like watching some bitch get her dues. He'll have to thank Volkov for shutting her up later, he doesn't think he could have handled another second of her fucking endless whining.

The pigs are just beyond the secure doors of the bank and even with guns trained on them and every harsh word he can think of spitting like acid rain from his lips the crowd wavers in their resolve to keep quiet. Their voices unnerve him, he's never enjoyed hearing someone talk before they die. Makes em too fucking human. Makes him remember how fucked up his internal wiring is to feel this way about other people.

They need to start getting their shit together, get the fuck out of the bank before a real shoot out is underway. The cops won't wait forever, soon enough they'll start pushing in on them. Good samaritan shit, the kind of baseless justice that makes Dylan sneer beneath his mask as they start edging toward to door.

At least Ashley has Lucia, they won't have to worry about anyone getting brave. Not when they've been clearly transparent with their willingness to kill.

But this jobs a fucking shitshow already and something has to go wrong. Before he can even figure out what the hells happening his brothers on the ground with some fucker pointing his own gun at him.

Red bleeds across his vision in the seconds before the pistol in his hand connects with the idiot's temple. Hard enough that the impact of it cracks audibly. There's a streak of blood on the butt of his gun afterward. He isn't down yet, though. Fights back, throwing wild punches that have no coordination. It's obvious that the hit to the head has him dizzy. Probably knocked a few loose screws out of place.

"Fucking stay down," Dylan's hissing between his teeth, bared beneath the mask. Unfortunate that the man doesn't get to see the exact expression of murderous intent that he's making. Mores the pity. Dylan lands a hit across the face, other hand reaching out to take the empty gun from the fuckers hand.

He's going to give Ashley so much shit later for not loading his gun. Even if it's the only thing that saved him - a fact that's boiling his blood.

With the idiot down on the ground and effectively out of his sight, the need to break every bone in his fucking body dissipates only long enough to be replaced by another type of anger altogether. All that's left is Ash - and, if he's being honest with himself Lucia.

(Even without being the biggest fans of one another he won't pretend that she isn't valuable.)

He can't finish the guy off himself, not while he's got this fluttering of panic lodged in his chest. Doesn't want to take his eyes of Ashley for longer than necessary, and unfortunately, evisceration takes more attention than he's willing to part with. But throws a look to Volkov, motions 'he's all yours' and takes some small feeling of satisfaction out of knowing the guys going to feel what its like to die in agony.

"Goddamnit." Dylan stands over him, watches Lucia play her part too goddamn well by pretending to crawl away while the big bad robbers are distracted. He has to give it to her, the girls got a real knack for this shit. Maybe he's a little too rough when he pulls her back by the arm, she'll have a line of bruises where his hands fit around her bicep later, and he isn't all that remorseful about it knowing that she's more than likely getting off to it internally - something that simultaneously impresses and annoys Dylan.

He turns and helps Ashley up after he's gotten Lucia in check and shoves her back into his brother's arms. She's his responsibility to handle, Dylan needs his hands-free in case someone else decides to get brave in the time between now and then. But with the demonstration Volkov puts on he doubts anyone will have the balls.

He keeps his own gun up to discourage the cops from making a stupid move. They look all too willing now to bust in the doors and start in. Cut the casualties before the entire place becomes a blood bath. Dylan ain't going to stick around long enough for that, and he isn't going to let Ashley stand by either. Motions towards the exit wildly. 'We need to get the fuck out' Words unspoken but clear in posture.

Bambi better be ready to burn rubber when they get out there. He's damn ready to be home, maybe throw a few punches with at Quin later. He'll certainly need the stress relief after this.

The heist is almost boring for Quinton. R e p e t i t i v e she supposes. The target is just another bank, bigger than their last, but not big enough in her opinion. Its not feeding that dark part of her that yearns for blood and pain. If nothing else can be said about Quinton, she is ambitious and sadistic. Then again, she supposes starting small is the best bet for their long-term health. What is the saying? Practice makes perfect…and they are damn close to perfect. The robbery is planned the same way Quinton plans her shopping trips – all details and desires. Distract and conquer. The heist is surgery like, or at least that's the way Quin thinks of it. They go in, extract the money, and don’t leave a damn trace of evidence. Of course, it is never that cut and dry and she loves it. This was the pattern she was raised with, this was the world she knows.

She tucks her Browning into her pants for extra insurance and lets her top hang loose over it. At first the metal is cold against her skin, icy perhaps, and she loves it. After just a few moments of it pressed against the taunt skin of her abdomen, the metal was ambient, feeling more like a part of herself than a tool of death. She had gotten it from her current companion, and good friend Andreas. She loves her Browning, all sharp angles and pain. With a little prodding from Andreas she had even named it Lola.

Quin doesn’t expect to use it today, it’s not her job to wave her gun. They each have their part to play, and hers is leading the circus. She’s calm as she instructs the teller to open the vault. They don’t want lives, just money, or at least that’s the lie she tells everyone. If everything goes as she plans everyone will make it out alive. Not that things ever go to plan. Quin adjusts her skull mask. It only covers the top half of her face, down to the tip of her fuckin’ adorable button nose. Horns protrude from the top of it grotesquely, exactly how Quin likes it.

Quin is aware no-one gets to be leader without having the morals of a sewer rat. For all their "code" the only one that counts is the most barbaric scum-bag rules. Be loyal or be more savage, that's the way it is. Maybe it is her instinct for cruelty that made the others follow her…or maybe it is her breasts, they are pretty fucking great. Either way she is satisfied with their crew, no matter why they follow her. Quinton prides herself on her family ties…but none of that blood thicker than water bullshit. Family doesn’t end with blood. This crew is her family. Robbing banks tends to create unbreakable bonds between virtual strangers. The "family" she has created for herself does not have a single drop of blood in common with her, and yet she would shed all of hers for them without a single thought.

The baritone of a male voice reverberates through the bank, breaking her reverie. It is soothing and smooth, like silk, or velvet wrapping around each and every person. Ash. He is their crowd pleaser, so to speak, and he’s damn good at it. He’s a fuckin’ pro, and he knows it. She supposes that’s what she loves about him. He’s the kind of people person she can never be. Sure, she’s charming as fuck, and she has a body to kill for…but she is no Ash. The smile never leaves his face, perfect soft lips over perfect white teeth. Amiable as ever, as if they weren’t waving guns around threatening lives. Its fucking h i l a r i o u s to her inner psycho…until, that is, she hears sirens.

The wailing of said siren rent the still air like a butcher's cleaver on a carcass. It was a violence to the calm that had been before. Her heart jumps into her throat as her brain registers the meaning of the jarring racket. S H I T. Now they need to move more quickly than she likes.

Someone has done something stupid, and that same someone is screaming, begging, hoping to survive the situation she has put herself in. Quinton rolls her eyes as she packs the money into the bag at blinding speed. She glances around the corner and see’s the beautiful blond creature writhing in a delicious kind of agony Quin herself craved to be doling out. The crying gets old almost immediately. It doesn’t bother her per say, if anything it makes her want to beat the woman into silence. She aches to feel the burn of open wounds on her knuckles from bone crunching contact.

For a moment, she thinks of indulging that fantasy, of letting her control slip and letting her fingers slink into the fine golden spun hair, fist and yank. She wanted to feel the herself demolish that woman’s delicate features under her hands, and, when she has finally taken her fill of that woman’s pain, Quin would press her hands to the woman's throat, squeezing until she no longer moved. She breaths out shakily and goes back to her task. She trusts her crew, they know what to do. Her body is running h o t. She gives a humorless chuckle as she realizes just how depraved she really is. God it is so good to be bad.

The gunshot cracked into the air as loud as thunder but without the raw power of a storm. It’s is a noise that heralds death and destruction. It sends electric tingles down her pine and her breath quickens. Quinton’s senses sharpen with adrenaline. Then silence returns, far more thickly than it was before the shots, as if everyone around them is collectively holding their breath.

The money is packed neatly in its designated section of the black leather duffel bags they brought. She glances down and can only think one thing: Fuckin’ gorgeous. She has no idea why people consider money the root of all evil. Personally, she loves money, and money l o v e s her. She glances around and nods to her crew. Time to get the fuck out of dodge.

Quinton throws the bag over her shoulder and walks around the teller’s counter. The sight that meets her steel grey eyes makes her pause.

A body lays on the once pristine cold marble floor, like a ghoulish mannequin, or some grotesque piece of art, soaking in a pool of her own blood. It is breath taking, and for a moment she stares. The blood and bone shards stood at stark contrast to the white marble floor, it is a masterpiece she is not sure she will ever be able to forget…not that she wants to. The bullet entered as if she is nothing, just meat, blood, bones, blasting through her with a splatter of crimson. Her golden blond hair is scattered in multiple places, stained with dried blood. Her face, so beautiful in life, was frozen, eyes open, and mouth slack. Quin tries to feel pity, but she can only muster amusement. Stupid is not fixable, it’s better to just weed them out.

Well, what could have been twenty five years tops, would likely be life and then some if they didn’t get the move on. She had decided when they had started this gig, that she would leave each heist either in the getaway car driven by her drop dead sexy gal Bambi, or she would be in a fucking body bag, there would be no in between. Quin finds she has an allergy to the bracelets and the pigs that are so willing to give them out.

Quin didn’t have to guess who had done it. She glanced at Alexie, making a face she knew is a man who has the swagger of someone most people don't even want to lock eyes with, let alone cross. His arms are more ink than skin, and he has more arm than Quin has body. Mountain of a man. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does it is in the kind of tone you don’t ignore if you like breathing without a respirator. Quinton supposes he just doesn't have any moral boundaries, no sense of right or wrong, good or bad. Maybe that’s why he is so damn good at his job. Things slow down for a split second as she glances at each of her men, watching them playing their roles to the point of perfection.

Suddenly Ash has Lucia and he’s rough. Quin feels the well of some disturbed part of her purr happily at the sight. Every time Quinton is around Lucia her head spins. The person Lucia is depends on who she is talking to and what she wants. She can be everything from bad-ass to vulnerable, albeit with a new story of each new situation. She has an infinite number of childhoods; her parents are happy, divorced, fighting, abusive or dead. Her Dad is a banker, a road digger, a burglar or unemployed. Her mother is a drunk, a politician, a Sally-home-baker or a tart. She was an only child, the last of eight, brought up in a foster home or the heir to a fortune. Quinton is always impressed with her work, she is an asset to the team. Today she is an innocent bystander, taken hostage by a ruthless bank robber. Quin grins, her full scarlet lips stretching over her pearl white teeth. She wonders for a moment what it would be like to fuck the grifter. She could be anyone Quin wanted her to be, compliant and willing, passionate and wanton, or angry and dominating. The thoughts make her stomach tighten with what she can only assume is arousal for the slim beauty.

There is a struggle and Ash goes down with Lucia, and not in the fun way. They are on their backs and there is a gun pointed at them. Quin is coiled, ready to strike. She wants to fucking kill the Neanderthal that poses a threat to her family. Dylan beats her to it. It’s probably for the best. They don’t have the time to indulge in her depraved forms of punishments.

Quin give Alexie a look that conveys ‘you do you boo boo, but make that shit quick, pretty please and whatnot.’ She wants so badly to stay and watch, to burn the memory of the man’s last breath into her mind for later use, but she knows they needs to get the hell going n o w.

“Let’s go” Quin barks before she proceeds to the back of the bank. She kicks the door and it swings open. She isn’t stupid enough to just jump out, and a good fucking thing too. Bullets fly, and she is amazed by the beautiful sparks they make, she almost claps happily like a child. Instead she pulls out her browning and gives a little kiss. She loves the feel of the cold metal against her soft lips.

The first man in blue pops around the corner and Quin is rearing to fight. She aims for only a second, before she pulls the trigger. The recoil is comforting and sends pleasant tingles down her spine. She watches as the man staggers back. He is alive because she didn’t go for the kill shot…yet. Quin wants to lure in his partner first, then take them both out. She grins coldly at the idea, becoming excited. The second cop pops around the corner and all Quin can think is: Thank god, she needs this. The second bullet tears from her gun, though she doesn’t remember pulling the trigger. It takes a second for the cop to register he is dead. She watches with fascination as the blood spills out in waves from the holes she has put in them. Just b e a u t i f u l.

Quin is at the car before she knows it. She see’s Bambi and doesn’t think. Instead she throws the bag in the back, and without missing a beat she yanks her young companions head back. There is no give in her hold as she presses her lips roughly to Bambi’s. She doesn’t give a damn about anything but the feel of her taking what she wants. The kiss is bruising, and she forces her way into Bambi’s mouth, with cruel bites and demanding growls. She tastes blood and something akin to a breathy moan left her lips before she could squelch it. It brings her back to reality.

“Load up ladies and gents” She calls with a wicked grin.

An uninformed observer wouldn’t look twice at the young woman, behind the wheel of the unassuming Jeep Wrangler. With one knee bent, tobacco in her lap and an unrolled cigarette between her fingers, one wouldn’t guess she was capable of breaking the law. She wore a long sleeve t-shirt like a dress, which gave her the appearance of a little kid dressing up in daddy’s clothes. She twisted the paper, licking the edges, her lips enveloping it entirely. Her hazel eyes looked in the review mirror to watch Casper, his profile alone was stunning. Here they were again, outside waiting

The sun beats in, the sun visor blocking the light from blinding her. An 80’s pop song melody plays, her eyes light up as she turns up the volume. She and Casper had been camping out in the jeep smoking cigarettes like they were going out of style.
“Holy shit I love this song,” She bounces off the edge of her seat, “it’s from that one movie.”

The only thing more disarming than her nonchalant nature was her bubbly demeanor. Bambi had an unrelenting sense of optimism in the face of danger and sin. She could steal a dead woman’s jewels and justify it with, ”This way the banks won’t get it.” ’cos fuck the banks.
She tucked the rolled cigarette behind her ear and started on another, bopping in rhythm to the song. She reclined the seat, sparking the rolly. Her free hand fell betwixt her silken thighs, playing with the hem of her oversized shirt. Humming the melody, she closed her eyes, bathed in the sun.

Bang, bang.
She imagines the boys now, cool heavy metal against bare flesh. She imagines Alexie painting the floor red, pulverizing some fucking idiot while bystanders scream in horror. She pressed her palm against the heat between her legs, moaning under her breath. She imagines Quin in a bed of money, naked. She hooks a finger under her panty’s lace trim, the fabric soaked.

She checks the time, any second now the phone should ring. She starts the car, rolling into traffic seamlessly. Turning into a side street, Bambi began to work her magic. She scouted every street in the mile radius of the bank, knew exactly which streets did or did not have cameras. She could get in and out completely untracked. It was a compulsive hobby that turned into a life skill. She holds her breath, the call is late.
Ring, ring. Exhale.

There was a small window of time between when the cops arrived and when the bank would be surrounded, and it appeared that the window had just gotten smaller. Bambi could feel the engine purr from beneath her. The vehicle was able to maneuver with surreal precision for it’s immense size, weaseling through narrow passageways to a side entrance to the building the bank was within. She manages to do a 180, the back window is reinforced bulletproof glass. Her lips were pursed, her hand steady. She was eerily at ease with the bullets that came flying, lighting her next cigarette and looking out the back window. She almost looked like she could be in a french film, a beautiful smiling woman basked in sun smoking a cigarette.
Here comes the noise

Quin is the first one in, jumping in the passenger seat. There’s a fire in her eyes, Bambi hardly has time to react before her head is pulled back. Quin forces her mouth onto Bambi’s, Bambi’s whimper is anything but displeasure. She knows the others are still loading into the car while bullet fly behind them, but that didn’t seem like enough reason to stop. While one of her hand instinctually slipped under Quin’s shirt, nails digging into her back - the other pressed between her thighs. She gasped, wanting to take in all of Quin then and there.
Fuck, she was damn hot.

Quit pulled back and someone shouted something to make Bambi go, go, go, go. A brief pout passed her expression, she wanted more, even as the bullets flew around them. They just had to get to the check point, there were separate cars waiting. That’s all she had to do - the rest was future Bambi’s problem. The streets had no chance with Bambi behind the wheel. There were lights behind her, her heart was racing. She laughed, turning a sharp corner, inertia launching everyone left as she turned right.
“Hold on tight.”

There was a sort'a savage poetry in the wail of that siren breaking through the chaos of the bank. He could see each of the crew react in their own way, Mackenzie's eyes immediately search for the 'why' behind their fuck up.

That bitch behind the counter, the screaming hysterical blonde that didn't understand when to shut the fuck up. They'd been their long enough that she had to understand that her best chance for survival was to stay fucking down like he'd been repeatin' over and over- switched to Russian even, just to drive the point clear,"Ostat'sya yebut vniz!".

But that bitch didn't listen and right now Alexie was taking long strides towards her. Slides across that desk, makin' her scream louder, telling him to "go away, no, no, don't!" in her whiny fucking voice. Even if she hadn't pulled this shit with the police he'd have ended up killing her. He grabbed a head and slammed her skull against the metal desk, sickening crack shutting her up for a moment. Then he grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged, tugging hard as he forced her withering body 'round the tellers desk. No use wasting a perfectly good execution tucked away back here.

He had the attention of the room now, things gone quiet 'cept for some sobbing and the bitches crying. He'd meant to hit her hard enough to shut her up, but she'd be quiet soon. He threw her down, slightly disgusted by the strands of hair that got ripped out all tangled 'round his fingers. Tries real hard to wipe them off before he pulls out his gun and cocks it.

She's got black lines running down her face and a bloody oozing wound on her forehead. He lines the barrel up with that bloody dent nicely, smirking under his mask. She can't see his face, but she looks up at him finally and he just knows that she knows she's gonna die. Loves that look, pure agony and shitting fear mixed with what he thinks is anticipation. He turns his head ever so slightly towards Mackenzie- pauses long enough to hear an affirmative. Only wastes half a second looking back to her and and squeezes.

Her head knocks back in slow motion, he watches brain matter and blood explode out the back. Her thin body rocks with the force and crumples, a ripped up petal oozing red. Stands over her for only a second before whirling around to the now silently riveted room. Loves the sea of fearful eyes staring at him.

Mackenzie's got some speech going on that'll be sure to keep him quiet, so Alexie amuses himself by walking around and individually giving them each a little of his attention. Points that barrel right where he shot the bitch, cocks the gun, jerks back his hand, "Bang". Uses Russian when he needs to, lets those harsh words slide off his snake tongue in a tone he'd imagine the devil usin'. Pure erotic fear clings to all of them and he's high on it.

He's pulled out of it when he hears the scuffle of Mac grabbing Lucia and backs up towards Mackenzie, not takin' his eyes off the crowd. Alexie's always been hyper aware of whatever Mackenzie's doing, especially during a heist. So he's more aware of the anger pouring out of the eldest brother rather then the younger on the ground, one stupid mistake away from having his brains blown in by some motherfucking asshole with a hero complex. Mackenzie's got that dumbass on the ground before Alexie can turn, clocked in the head hard enough that he looks stunned. Dog tags indicate the fucker knows how to fight, but Alexis already on him as Mackenzie moves aside, leaving the stupid hero to his monster.

He's aware the groups moving out but he's got time to spare. No ones getting passed him now and the whole room has full view of the man lying under him. He can't take his time cause he can practically feel the cops on them already, but he can't let this man think its alright to be a hero- not with his things."Tebe sledovalo byt' umneye, tupitsa", he growls out, you should've been smarter dumbass, crouching low and digging his blood splattered gun into the mans thigh. Guy tries to take a swing at him, but Alexie shifts only slightly back to avoid it,"Derr`mo,cocksucker, do you not know death when its looking at you?"

He's sure the fucker would've replied had he not squeezed the trigger and unloaded straight into the inner muscle of the mans thigh. His words turn in a pretty gurgling scream, so frantically pained that it shrills into silence. Alexie knows that true pain really doesn't make a noise, so he sure the man has to be hurting. Smiles under his skull mask, liking that thought.

"Don't touch my things" His voice is a mixture of a hiss and yell, yet relativizing calm considering the silently screaming man in front of him. He stands and looks back at the panicking room, then towards his retreating crew. The cocksuckers trying to crawl away from him now and that makes him laugh. Takes a step forward and unloads one more shot into the bleeding out leg, then two more into the other. The floor is slick with blood now and he knows the guy's not gonna last long.

Its louder in the back then before and that signals that his time is up. Sends a wave to the screaming room, knows their gonna rush to save the dying man, but he's long gone. Alexie doesn't even bother to step over the growing puddle of blood as he exits through the back, red foot prints marking his trail.

He slides into the Wrangler next to Mackenzie, his grin ear to ear under that mask. Can't ever decide if he hates or loves that his expressions get covered up during a job, but he's sure most of them are grinning by now. BamBam peels out, joyful laugh escaping her, and Alexie twists his hand through the seat in front of his to slide a gloved hand along her neck.

They still had to escape successfully, but from his position, job well done.

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There's never been a time in her life where the necessary fear couldn't be dredged up and added to the con. Theres reserves of it, tucked beneath layers of constructed identities and different faces. Tears are tools, implemented in order to get the reaction she wants from the people around her. Reality is only framed in the split second between remembering and forcing those feelings forward. Afterward, in the tremble of her frame, only a stranger is left to fill the shoe's that Lucia leaves in her slumber.

The girl is too naive. Introduces herself within seconds as Stephanie.

Lucy spends only a few minutes chatting her up before the heist but its enough. A bond is formed between reminiscent stories of high school volleyball and their shared number of younger siblings. The small shit usually gets them, but she throws an extra few bones in just in case. Being the first in gives her ample time to connect with whomever she can. Cement her role among the civilians before the real game begins.

If she weren't so damn good at schooling her face she'd be grinning like a madman, the excitement a constant throb in her gut. Where she stuffs down the excitement. This is fun, always has been. She doesn't know what the fuck she would have done had she stayed in Wilmington and not taken Ash up on his offer. Probably waste away or get her head hacked off by pops.

Nothing quite as exciting as the sound of screams that rise up as the crew comes barreling their way in. Its the usual after that, lined up, guns waved in their faces, 'cept a few hitches in this journey. Some lady with a phone, and a stupid as fuck teller who gets a new hole in the head for all her troubles. Lucia averts her gaze, puckers her lips up in a quiet sob. Stephanie clutches her hands tightly, attempting to be the strong one here, despite the tears clinging to her cheeks. Lucia grips her hands back, too tight to be anything but painful.

This is too fun.

While Dylan and Alexie pace the lines, angry, waving their guns, Lucia bows her head, keeps herself from standing out among the crowd. Stephanie is mumbling to her, under her breath. Quiet promises, things that everyone says to people in these situations. 'Its okay. We'll get out of this. The cops will get them.' Lucia can't help the bubbling of a laugh, smothers it on the way out as a choked sob.

She wants to cradle Stephanie's face in her hands, kiss away those pretty tears, and whisper to her just how very wrong she is. Instead, she leans closer to her, pressing their sides together in mock comfort. Shit's going south, and soon enough Ash will come for her. Till then she waits, and plays her role with an efficiency that borders on boring. Biding the time by studying the reactions of the crowd around her, committing the different sounds of fear to memory. There's never a time like the present for a little method acting study.

Almost misses when Ash starts heading for her, snaps to attention as he gets within view. Proceeds to yank her up by the hair - 'Oh, that was great.' and starts herding her away from Stephanie, whose screams are more of a turn on than Lucia ever expected. Damn, she definitely needs to get laid after this. Or pop a few sugar cubes later and watch the world melt.

Lucia fights Ash minimally, playing on the idea that her strength is no match for the guy manhandling her. There are plenty of averted eyes in the crowd, people who look too damn guilty about sitting there and letting them take her. Peoples reactions to this part of the job have never failed to interest her. There were so few people willing to look in the eye, knowing that - if she were any normal person - she'd wind up dead.

'Fucking dumbfucks, all of em.'

They're getting close to the exit, close enough that Lucia relaxes her posture a bit. Wrong move. Fucking hurts when their world is upended and she and Ash hit the ground. Lucky for her he took most of the fall, but her goddamn ankle hurts and the impact crushed the air from her lungs. Motherfuckin' ow. She's pissed. Exacerbated by the fact that she can't express how pissed she is without breaking character. But fuck, she hopes to fucking hell that guy gets pulverized. Doesn't know what his bitch ass was thinking but no doubt he had some stupid ideas of being a hero. Stupid fuck.

Can't let the shock overtake her though, starts struggling again, can't let anyone think this isn't real. Not if she wants to stay unrecognizable. Gets her third or fourth injury for the trouble when Dylan yanks her up, something pops in her shoulder and she hisses under her breath a string of expletives, quiet enough that only she and the boys would be able to hear. She can't imagine what it would feel like if she didn't enjoy the throbbing pains as much as she does. They're damn lucky she gets off on this, otherwise they'd have an earful to listen to later.

After she's back in Ash's arms and they're out she leans up, whispers in his ear "lets go get wasted later." before they're sliding into the jeep and going off on their merry way.

Does jumping tax brackets in a matter of minutes make you lose the desire to be a better person, or is the framework already set in place?

The answer’s hazy like the smoke he exhales, got him wondering what had to go south to land him in the back of a Jeep while his way out get’s her rocks off. In all fairness, her nonchalance is almost as cathartic as this nicotine, and even if he’s looking every-which-way but there he kinda likes the way she walks as if she's rushing to meet death and daring life to trail behind all the same.

You could say he’s grown accustomed to coming in on the reciprocal end of carnage, turning unsalvageable bodies back into instruments of survival in an environment that wanted nothing more than to see someone dead. He can picture the mayhem anatomically correct while he pulls at his nose peircing with the kind of lazy preoccupation of a kid who's not completely there.

Ash’s probably got his gun to someone’s neck, the threat just as real as any catastrophic CNS damage; doesn’t doubt that Alexie’s actually showing someone what words are worth. Swears he can feel the stippling of unburnt gunpowder singeing the entrance wound black as a bullet crushes any tissue in it’s path and shreds vessels until it punches through some poor teller’s occipital in it’s final act of sin. Paint’s the floor like a cheap Seurat piece, reduces miniscule resistance to common spite that sits heavy in the chest, easily displacing whatever baggage occupied that place moments prior.

Hm, he can’t remember the last time that kind of ruination flooded his veins, but that could just be the fact that his worst decisions coasted on the back of too much liquor and a hype man or two. The safety blanket known as watching from a distance spares him from that malady known as invincible aggression, voraciousness, a malignancy spurred on by the scent of blood and hyped by wounds and fanned by murder -- a shiver that twists and works its way through the nerves until it’s lodged itself in the psyche as neatly as a parasite really could.

Can’t say he never tried. Tried to tap into some of that aimless dissatisfaction with everything and everyone that has you convinced the human heart can’t possibly beat four thousand times per hour unless you’re there with the carving knife and sixty minutes to kill -- gotta see it for yourself. Take each struggling beat as a souvenir. Still, it didn’t take long for him to realise what he thought was light was merely the radiance refracted off the broken glass beneath his feet. A busted window posing as the The Skylight just 'cause the light hit it right.

Nah, nothing malicious really stirs in him.

But money is money, and if the gang is his affliction then he’s clearly jaded to the fact.

Just when he thinks it’s taking too long they get the call and Bambi’s maneuvering through the labyrinth of a city with that ardent kind of charm and even if his muscles are coiled in anticipation, hands green to go as if he had a piece to reach for, he’s never quite sure whether or not it’s anxiety or excitement that settles into the pit of his stomach. There’s really no reason to worry. When you’ve been cut a thousand times those new wounds don’t do very much, and if anyone’s immune he knows it’s this crew, but when he finally registers gunshots like that exasperating noise in the back of a room, sirens cutting through the air, he really can’t stop his mind from wondering.

Even normal people carry guns nowadays.

Quin pops in first and the way she presses up against Bambi tells him he won’t be putting sutures to skin, the remnants of a life undone covering Alexie makes it worse, and while he’d never want anything to happen to his friends he can’t deny that he’s got arachnids chewing through his veins at the thought of cutting something. Casper moves over as needed, picks at the beast tattooed on the back of his hand. Assesses everyone with a squint as much as one could in the midst of a high speed getaway. Nope, he’d never wish any kind of major damage on anybody, but he doesn’t realize he’s biting his lip until he swears he can taste the blood beneath. Waiting for the crew to pile in was his nanosecond after violence and when it dawned on him that everyone was reasonably intact all he can really do is rest his chin on a balled fist and let out an affable, “job well done, huh?”

He’s almost defeated when he utters the quietest, “that’s boring.”

Maybe next time he'll see if someone can bring him back a body. For practice.

xAs a child, had anyone told Andreas that he would be living anything less than a mundane life. He would have laughed. Things had already been laid out for him from the moment he was born. A steadily growing college fund, that would have been enough by the time he hit eighteen to get him into whatever college he chose. Encouragement from a two parent household where, despite the neighborhood and the stigma that nipped at their heels, there was nothing but an abundance of love. And nobody else to contend with for attention and care. Always, always pushed to do the right thing no matter what; get good grades, make friends with the kids that nobody else likes, never make trouble with the law.

These were the ultimate laws in the Noble household.

So then, how has it come to pass that Andreas is standing in a bank, in the middle of a heist, stuffing handfuls of bills into duffel bags like there's no tommorow. Listening to the chaos erupting just beyond the doors to the safe. Theres a scuffle, the sound of gunfire, and the silence of shock settling over the crowd. He can imagine whats happened, tucks away the stray doubts about his own role in all of this and continues doing his job. Theres no time for a crisis of morality here, this is the path he chose. With reservations or not.

They were cutting it close with this one, he could hear the sirens tempo getting ever louder. Thrumming in his gut as a mixture of giddy hype and anxious nausea. Keeping a cool head ain't easy, gotta dig a hole in the mind, create a place for all the negativity to fester. Bury those dead thoughts deep down, far below, where even the sound of guns sounding off in the distance can't raise em. Keep those zombies at bay, while the real work is getting done.

Funny how crime pays a hell of a lot more than the same job done flying straight. Could be one of them out there, lined up in neat rows, ready to feel a bullet break through thick cranium. Splatter bits and pieces around on the floors. Soak the people surrounding in viscious fluids. Head popped like a fucking baloon. Andreas doesn't pity those people, doesn't let the idea of 'good' get too far under his skin. Works work, and he'd never play house long enough to be one of those people out there.


No matter what the issue these are his people, his family for better or worse and no amount of poking and prodding will shake his belief in this crew. He's on steady ground, there is no earthquake waiting to test his foundations. And Andreas is loving it.

As far as jobs go this one isn't bad, ain't easy, definitley isn't fast. Andreas hums under his breath, a maddening tune he can't place the name of. Thinks it must be something he's heard a dozen times on the radio. Probably something Bambi likes to blast when they aren't busying themselves with escaping the clutches of the law.

Fuck, that makes them sound like cartoon villains.

Ash pops his head in once, long enough for Andreas to confirm that they need more time. Theres so much fucking money in here, more than he's seen in most of the smaller banks they've hit. The greed of it hits deep. Burrows in his chest, where his heart skips every time he hears one of the guns go off. Its exhilirating, liberating, the feeling of all those bills slipping through his fingers into the duffels never fails to kick up his drive.

This is what he's here for. Mom. Dad. College. They all exist in a world that is so far off from the one Andreas inhabits. Fragments of something that he could have been, washed away by the smell of new bills and gunpowder. He can't even begin to imagine all the new toys he could buy with this. All the pretty girls he could add to the collection. He pats Sherry fondly, her body laid out on the nearest table. She's a pretty thing, his go-to gal for these kinds of jobs. Besides, always handy to have a Semi-Auto around, even more when its a Semi-Auto Shotgun.

And incidentally, if she's not the one he raises to his defense, there's always Christine the pistol tucked into the back of his pants. Or Brandy the knife, her precision deadly when dragged across the trachea. All of his girls, all too ready to spill blood at his command. He doesn't know what he'd do without them.

Thinking is always a good distraction from the ruckus going on out there. Body going into autopilot, a little dangerous, but necessary at times. Gives him a way to settle, keep his mind from drifting into dangerous waters. And by the time he's snapped back they're done. Ready to get the fuck out of the bank before the cops come running in, guns blazing. He follows Quin's lead, grabs the duffel up and grips Sherry tight afterwards.

Its easy enough to carry it all - he's in goddamn great shape.

He pauses, just in time to see the tail end of whatever shit the guys have going on. Averts his gaze - theres only so much his constitutions can handle. Cold blooded murder isn't one of em. Continues on out to the car. Piles in alongside all the others, still too giddy for words. Its fucking amazing what a rush it is to commit a crime of this scale. He'd never felt this before, with petty theft and vandalism. His cousins brand of fun had never quite managed to reach his own level of enjoyments.

The comedown is a little harsh though. Theres something nagging at his mind, a vague "something wrong here." Everybody else seems content enough. Though he can hear Lucia complaining in her seat. The usual shit. He glances over, zero's in on Quin.

"Shit Quin, did you get shot?" Like a kid who can't help poking something dead with a stick he's got his hands on the wound. Fingers sliding over the blood. It's not too bad, nothing that would kill her but no doubt Casper would need to take a look to confirm that. She doesn't seem to be hurting after all. Could be adrenaline, could be something else. She's such a strong person after all, maybe its sheer will thats keeping the pain at bay. Fascinated (and oddly, scarily turned on.) He lets one finger slip over the wound, unintentionally dipping into it. He withdraws, the appendage now covered in her blood.

He casually wipes it off on his pant leg.

If that was weird for her, it was twice as weird for him.

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The thing about being Ash Mackenzie is that no one can put their hands on him without expecting to get their ass kicked in response. It’s been a thing since he was a child, and whenever he sees Dylan angry he’s almost shocked that a certain CPS worker with a crescent shaped scar on her hand didn’t end up six feet under. Maybe she did, after the fact. He’s never asked.

The Would-Be-White-Knight’s face washes with confusion when the gun clicks but nothing happens and it feels like a long time that they just stare at each other. Ash is still grinning, running high on adrenaline that makes him feel damn near cocky about the prospect of his death, but in those two seconds his heart skips a beat and anxiety makes him cold. He can feel panic creeping through his chest. The kind that works its way up his throat and makes it hard to breathe.

The sound of metal against bone restarts the world at it’s normal speed, and Dylan’s on the guy faster than Ash can blink. Gets him down and then his attention is right back on his brother and Ash knows he feels it too. Would have killed the dude, otherwise. He wants to say ‘I’m okay’ but can’t seem to form the words, watches Dylan motion towards Alexie instead.

It surprises him when the guy actually moves. Ash was used to having one guard dog but not two, and Alexie is so goddamn fast it’s almost unreal. He wonders for a moment just who he was doing it for. For him? For Dyl? Or just for the violence?

He didn’t notice Lucia had crawled away until Dylan’s pulling him to his feet and shoving the woman back in his arms. His gaze is locked on Alexie and the sound of harsh Russian he can’t understand even if he tried. Alexie’s tone is ice cold though, the kind of shit nightmares are made of, and it sends a sick little thrill down Ash’s spine. His heart's beating fast, blood rushing behind his ears, and he wants to see this.

Gunshots start up somewhere and he nearly fucking jumps when he suddenly remembers why they were trying to get out in the first place. Dylan gestures at him sharply and Ash nods because right. They’re doing something. It’s still fucking hard to pull his eyes off Alexie and the promise of blood, though.

He’s out the back door after Quin and Andreas and the work they’ve put in means there’s a lot less cops to worry about than there were before. Not that he’s ever very concerned because he has Lucia and it’s a rare day that anyone would risk shooting near the seemingly innocent girl with him.

The second they’re clear Lucia’s mouth is at his ear and her voice rushes by saying his four favorite words ever: let’s go get wasted (later). He’d marry her if she wasn’t, well, a girl. (Or hella fuckin gay herself). “Fuck. Please.” He needs it. After this job. Doesn’t even give a fuck what they do or where. Just needs it.

Lucia’s in first and he’s right after her because they’re always backseat riders. It’s a cramped spot for legs as long as his but it’s an opinion he doesn’t really get to have. Plus, he’ll choose a little discomfort if it means being alive.

His heart flips. The joke doesn’t feel so funny.

Dylan’s in right after him and he breathes a sigh of relief, reaching across the seat back to wrap his shaky fingers in the jacket at his brother’s shoulder. Close call. Bambi and Quin are up front, Andreas and Casper already situated, which leaves Alexie slamming shut the last door. His dark clothes are splattered with a lot more blood than they were before and fuck, Ash wishes he would have seen. Maybe he’ll ask later. Maybe Alexie will actually tell him. He doubts it.

Bambi peels out and Casper’s assessing them all with an every critical gaze, like the speed of the vehicle isn't disturbing his calculating mind at all. Ash watches the excitement fade out of his eyes slowly. Oh, Casper’s bored. He almost feels bad that he didn’t get shot after all. Well, that’s a fucking lie, but someone should have.

PD don’t know the streets as well as Bambi does and it’s not exactly comfortable as she jerks them through tight corners and back roads, but she’s damn good at her job so he doesn’t complain. It takes a lot to make him let go of Dylan but he does eventually in order to tug his mask off and run his fingers through his hair. The hood fell off when he hit the floor but he’s sure it doesn’t matter much.

He pulls the stolen iPhone out of his back pocket and peels it out of it’s case while the others check in with each other. He’s keeping that shit, but the phone goes out the window. Too many goddamn ‘find me’ apps these days and it’s not cool enough to bother hacking into.

They aren’t completely in the clear yet and Bambi’s still driving fast enough to give a normal person a heart attack, but the more distance that’s put between them and the bank the more his adrenaline high drops. His shoulder fucking throbs where he hit it and his head hurts from bouncing off the ground and he definitely tastes blood now that he thinks about it. Not enough shit to complain about but enough to be uncomfortable.

He checks on Lucia and she’s banged up too but she’ll live so he’s not worried. Got off better than him maybe except from where Dylan grabbed her. It’ll make nice bruises though, she’ll be into it.

His body protests that he should lean back but he goes forward instead, curls one arm against the back of the seat to rest his chin on and grips loosely at Dylan’s shoulder again. The physical hold grounds him and puts him closer to Alexie and wow. That’s a lot of blood.

"Shit Quin, did you get shot?" Ash’s attention turns to up front where Andreas is checking her over, an odd sort of focus lining his features. Ash arches an eyebrow, thinks something along the lines of be careful what you wish for, and then snorts out a laugh. “Fuck, Quinny. Leave it to you to get fuckin shot.”

Quinton is buzzing, high on death and adrenaline, when she glanced in the mirror she saw her own large dark eyes staring back at her. Her eyes are asking, no b e g g i n g, for more…more violence, death, and devastation. She loves rules. She does. They tell her what boundaries need breaking next. She is sliding around the car, not bothering to hold on as they wiz through traffic. Distance was all that mattered. The world passed in a blur of red and white lights. The hiss of the tires over the smooth tarmac was lost under the sound of her own beating heart.

Words penetrate the haze of her high and she glances down with some surprise. She had been shot? Well s h i t. Adrenaline must be holding back the pain, like a wall to a flood, because she is just as turned on and exuberant than she ever thought possible. She watches in fascination as Andreas’s hand explores the wound, first sliding over then into the hole in her flesh. Pain seared through her making her jaw clench and her eyes narrow, yet there was a small medium large part of her that wanted him to continue. There was something erotic about watching his digit disappear inside her. He seems put off by the situation so she grins at him coyly though her pain.

“Hey, at least by me dinner first.” She purrs before turning her attention back to the hole in her body. She is mildly surprised that she has not gotten shot before this. A irritating thought wiggles into her brain and she pouts. This was one of her good shirts, and now there was a fucking hole in it! She sighs, exasperated, before she tugs off her shirt so she can get a closer look at her wound.

“Fuck, Quinny. Leave it to you to get fuckin shot.” Ash says in his usual bitchy tone. Quin raises a brow at him and sticks her tongue out.

"Yes, this was my secret objective, add another scar to my already fucked body. You have my master plan figured out Ash." Quin says sarcastically.

It is smaller than she expects, or at least the entrance wound is. The exit wound is significantly larger, and a tad bit uglier. W h o r e. There is a fair amount of blood and she can’t help but be mesmerized. The dark red fluid makes its way out of her body. It oozes between the spaces between her fingers as she examines the wound as best she could.

She presses her ruined shirt to the wound, every touch causes lightening bolts of pain to ribbon through her, which in turn causes a warmth to pool deep within her. Sharp pain lances through her body and colorful spots flash in front of my eyes. More blood soaks through her shirt so she presses harder causing searing fiery bursts to pulse around the wound.

“Casper, the bullet went through the false ribs in the inter-costal spaces, ah, I think it’s between the six and seventh rib, through and through…Hey can I barrow one of you boy's shirt.” Quin asks, but pauses as they take another sharp corner which sends delicious agony through her body.

“You know what…never mind. I’m coming back.” She says as she climbs over the seat to the back and onto the laps of her compadres. She keeps a tight hold on the shirt against her side as she stretches out on their laps to give Casper better access to her wound.



‘I'm a sucker for pain
I got the squad tatted on me from my neck to my ankles
Pressure from the man got us all in rebellion
We gon' go to war, yeah, without failure
Do it for the fam, dog, ten toes down, dog
Love and the loyalty that's what we stand for
Alienated by society, all this pressure give me anxiety
Walk slow through the fire
Like, who gon' try us?
Feeling the world go against us
So we put the world on our shoulders’


Quin struggles to reach the vibrating triangle playing Sucker for Pain. She arches back and pulls the phone out of her back pocket, though her body protests.

“What?” Quin snaps to whomever was foolish enough to call her.

“Cher wants to know when you’ll be back” Quin’s brother says in a bored tone that rubs Quin the wrong way. He is to damn much like Quin.

“Look Thing One, it’s not a good time.” Quin says as she glances down at the hole in her side and then out the window. If she had to guess she would say they where only minutes out from point Bravo where they would switch cars, split up, and meet at The Lion Hotel.

“Cher says he’s tired of babysitting.” Leo sighs

“Tell him he can suck my big pink strap on and to stop being such a bitch” Quin bit out. She is starting to feel slightly light headed. She shakes it off as best she can.

“He says fuck off.” Leo says and Quin hears a hint of glee as he speaks. She rolls her eyes and sighs.

“I love him too. Give him the $40 in my top drawer…on second thought let him get it…” Quin says realizing suddenly she is sure she doesn’t want them in her room.

“Just have him order pizza and hang out, You’re going to be with him for a while so you and thing two play nice.” Quin says. They hit a bump and it makes her tense her abdomen. The torn muscles complain and she bites her lip to keep from making any noise.

“Look it is r e a l l y not a good time. I’ll call you back….I hope” She says as she snaps the phone shut and looks up at Casper with an expectant smile..

“So Doc, can you fix it on the fly?” She asks as she releases her hold on the wound. More blood gushes out with every beat of her heart and she laughs.

“God I look fine as fuck in red.”

Slight left, slight right, the feeling of leather under the pads of her finger sensual. She could feel every vibration from the engine, reverberating through her sternum. The sirens and lights were reminiscent of a discotheque, her stereo drowning out all other noise. When she drove, there wasn’t much other than the road. The path laid itself before her, she didn’t even think of where to turn next, it was practically magnetic the way she flew through the streets.

While chaos swirled around her, Bambi was unnaturally calm. With the same expression as a teenager pulling out the driveway to head to school, she was equal parts of youthful excitement and chronic apathy. She cracked her window, the cool breeze tickling the wisps of hair that stuck out. The smell of blood, the rush of adrenaline, the flash of lights behind them - it felt like home.

“Did you say B I G pink strap on?” Her ears perked up, turning to realize Quin had crawled back to the back seat. Adjusting the rearview mirror to get a better look, she could see Quin painted in blood and Casper examining for the source of the bleeding. “Wha - what happened?” She asked, pawing at the backseat. Every time Quin swatted her hand away, Bambi would swat back.
“Damnit, woman.”

”Bambi - stop it. Drive.”

Pouting, Bambi returned to her position. “I’m all alone up here!” she whined, hoping someone would get a clue and hop in the front with her. Not that it would matter, she would disappear into the road anyways with no time to spare.
“What the…”

They were just in their final stretch, almost to the switch. Bambi thought she had the bulk of the force on her tail, she perked up in her seat. Finally, a challenge. Before them, stretched from end to end of the avenue was a line of about a dozen patrol cars. A devilish smile tugged at her lips, her speed never faltered. If anyone in the car protested, she couldn’t hear them. The police stood with arms behind their front, Bambi stared down their barrel - daring them to shoot.

She was holding her breath, gradually drifting to the far side of the street, seemingly trapping herself. It seemed like it would be a win for the PD today, that they would be the ones to catch these menaces to society. That was the other perk of being a driver, people forgot to factor you into the equation. Bambi pulled a hard left, the squad cars zoomed past where she turned - some colliding head on with the barricade. Shrieks harmonizing with shattered glass creating a beautiful cacophony. Four wheels screeched through the hotel lobby, shooting through to the other side where it led into an open air parking lot. The squad cars attempted to follow but without the reckless abandonment for the value of human life couldn’t keep the same speed as Bambi.

Her heart was racing, she realized she hadn’t taken a breath in over a minute, she had began to draw blood from biting her lip as she did when focused. She leaned back in her seat, the sound of sirens fading and her grip on the wheel lessening. She lowered the volume of the radio, laughing at herself. “Holy shit, what a blast.”

Soon they were in the industrial part of town, most of it was abandoned buildings and slabs of concrete with overgrown weeds growing through the cracks. Mostly it was a place for kids to hotbox cars and crack heads to fuck, but it also served as a perfect place to make the switch. Two luxury sedans with lightly tinted windows sat under a bridge, push to start engines. She tossed a key to the back seat, whoever caught it could drive the silver. Bambi gets the black one, a l w a y s.

The dance began, Casper helped Quin to the car, the others began to distribute the goods between the two cars. Bambi watched them all work around her, stepping out to lean against car, smoking a cigarette.

Her boots had a chunky heel that clipped as she walked to the open trunk, a finely manicured hand reaching in to pull out a fire hydrant red gas can. While the others carried out the contents from one car to the others, Bambi doused the interior of the Jeep. She was the last one done, always - but they saved the best part for last. The sound of a lighter from behind her made her smile, unaffected by the fact that she was surrounded by kerosene. Blood spattered across his inked skin, lit cigarette between his lips, Alexie’s eyes hot on her skin. At least someone gave her attention.

He was the only one who waited for her, of course that’s because she’d leave the best part for him. She set a trail of gasoline from under the front of the car to where Alexie stood, throwing the gas tank into the trail of kerosene for good measure. Her hands were slick with the flammable liquid and as much as she wanted a cigarette, she had to let Alexie do the honors. She felt dwarfed beside him, his dark features and fierce eyes that of a wolf and her the dainty fawn beside him. His face was as still as ever, but she knew well enough he liked what he saw.

“All yours.” She said, indicating the opportunity to ignite her makeshift explosive, although her body language said differently. She winked, her hand laced around his bicep, squeezing it gently before she walked away.

The car was whisper quiet, she stroked the leather, inhaling it’s scent. It was enough to make a girl moan, she smiled to herself. She watched Alexie in the rear view mirror as she rode away, the anxiety building in her gut. She saw him flick his cigarette, walking away. The trail lit up, engulfing the Jeep in flames. It was almost beautiful, at least for a little bit. Both cars sped away, putting as much distance between themselves and the soon to be massive beacon to all law enforcement. Once the fire hit the gas tank, it could be heard from blocks away. The loud B O O M shook the air, throwing the Jeep high into the air before it fell onto it’s back slowly roasting any evidence that they were every there.

---

They'd all gone six rings through hell before the seventh ring lit up on the horizon. Dylan tries his damnedest to ignore the way his heart won't stop thumping out of control. There's a quiet thrill to the adrenaline that spikes up and down his spine but nothing like the way his mind turns around all the things that could have fucking gone wrong. He can't stop imagining the gun actually going off, but he can't bring himself to imagine the destination of that bullet either. The cars constant movement keeps him from drifting too far into the clouds, the constant hum a sort of comfort in this too-long day.

As far as jobs go this one happened to be more of a success than he would like to admit. His comfort had been sacrificed at the very end of it, but he shoved past that. Clasped a hand around Ash's shoulder, reminding himself that nothing bad happened to him. Ash is still there. He's not going anywhere. It only assuages the fear a little. Only to be dashed as soon as Andreas is preening over Quin.

"Christ, we need to hurry the fuck up." Dylan hisses under his breath, incapable of pretending that he is all that concerned. Quin is strong, capable, and she can damn well handle a gunshot wound. So long as they don't hit any other major bumps in the metaphorical road. He had full confidence in her ability. And hey, now Casper has someone to dissect for a little while.

As far as their little road trip goes, Dylan has never been one for speeding. Traffic laws are perhaps the only ones he's ever obeyed. Mostly out of necessity, he couldn't afford any warrants in his early days. And the way Bambi drives like she's got nothing to lose, makes him grit his teeth. Tries not to grind them down to the gums as they pull various stunts to avoid a police blockade. Can't relax for a second as they move along.

Doesn't realize he's digging his nails into his wrist until they're pulling to a stop and the sting finally triggers his pain receptors. Bambi tosses the keys back and without hesitation, he grabs for them. There's no way in hell he's letting anyone else drive. Not while he's feeling so goddamn high strung. Besides, he needs a breather and there's no better way than to lose himself on the road.

As usual, the flare for dramatics presented in the cars preparation for an explosion is no less something he would expect from Bambi and Alexie. He rolls his eyes, but won't interfere in their fun. No matter how annoyed he is. Dylan only watches Alexie for a short moment before locking his gaze on Ashley. There's a long, shaky moment where all he does is stare and remember just how much of an idiot his kid brother is. Before stepping forward and enveloping him in a nearly bone-crushing hug. Ashley's got him wrapped up just as tight, so tense that not even the tremble in Dylans hands shakes them.

"You idiot," Dylan snarls under his breath, breaking the incredulous laugh that tries to rise.

He parts but doesn't go far, keeps his hands on Ashley, doesn't let go until he's tamed the thoughts of losing him.

"You should have loaded your gun, what the fuck were you - " Dylan pauses, considers the anger in his tone and switches pace. Shakes his head, "Don't answer that, obviously you weren't thinking." He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and pulls back. Can't control the way his temper flares at random, feels out of body for a while but knows that they need to get on the road. There's no time for this talk here. They'll just have to deal with an audience.

"Come on kid," He feels bone weary as he heads towards the car, goes around to the driver side. Thinks better of it after a moment and tosses the keys to Lucia, despite his earlier misgivings about letting anyone else drive. He may not fully trust Lucia with his life, but he's going to set aside those differences long enough for her to get them out of the clear. She grins like a maniac and Dylan shoots her a venomous look. There's no love lost between them but he'd rather not murder his kid brothers best friend today.

"Speed limit, we don't want to draw attention." They've come too far to get fucked over by a lead foot.

"Well that's no fucking fun," She pouts, and he only hopes he doesn't have to strangle her before the day is done - or figure out something else to do, since she'd probably enjoy that too much for his comfort. He slides into the back, tries not to flinch at the sound of the explosion as they drive off. Following a pre-determined route to safety. Lucia tips the meter just a bit but for the most part, doesn't push her luck. Most of the ride is silent, save for some weird shit thats playing through the stereo.

"I'm glad your okay." Dylan breathes, at last, feels the ice loosen in his chest. There's something numbing about the words, how they can mean so much and be so short spoken at the same time.

"But for christ sakes Ashley, do not ever let that happen again."

Алексей Волков

Car rides got to him, some reason he always felt like throwing his guts out when Bam started zipping through the streets. He glared at the head rest in front of him and through it to the back of Bam's head- really he could never do anything to her, but thought it was best he let his discomfort known. He leaned forward and put his head on the front seat and slid his hand around the corner to grip at his olen's shirt, thinking maybe that would ground him enough to not toss his stomach on the floor.

She drove like a maniac but he kept his head down for the entirety of the drive- ignored the bitching about Q getting shot, ignored the hassle of her climbing into the back seat, knew if she could swear that much she was gonna be just fine. The Ghosty had it under control anyway and he preferred to not get involved. Besides, he was covered in two different assholes blood, they didn't want him touching her.

Bambi swerved around a corner and slammed the car to a sudden halt- if Alexie had been watching he probably could have prepared himself better and avoid slamming his head into the drivers seat. Everyone was rushing out of the car's and he looked around at them like he dared they say something. Realized a second later that his menacing glare was still hidden under his fucking mask.

Alexie climbed out and stepped aside for them to drag Q across the dirt to the new set of cars. He pulled and a cigarette and lit it, tipping his mask up a fraction to allow his mouth access to the nicotine. He watched the mayhem of everyone moving the shit- his job was to protect them, so he stood aside while they dragged the loot and 'protected'. Watched Bam dousing the pretty jeep with kerosene, her tiny body looked ridiculous next to that giant car. Alexie liked her best cause of that even though tiny was about the last word he would use to describe her. Sometimes he had a hard time dragging his eyes off her, mesmerized by all that fire. Back in Russia they used to set off fireworks inside of cans on the street. Thing would burst with sparks until he suddenly took off into the sky and for some reason his Bam reminded him of one of those. He walked over to her just as she finished dumping the last of the liquid out, rolling his cigarette between his lips as he stared down at her.

She grinned and dropped the can, her pretty little face mischievous as he craned her face up at him, “All yours.”. His smile was dangerously wide and he had to grab his cig before it fell out of his mouth. She winked and grabbed his arm as she moved by him- the touch made him feel like forgetting the explosion and follow her back to the car, but he turned back around anyway. Took one last long drag of his cigarette, flicked the ashes off, and tossed it towards the shimmering line of oil. Flames sprung immediately and greedily ate up the clear liquid- he would have stayed to watch the show but they were on a time schedule.

He jogged to the waiting car as Bam pulled away in hers- Ghosty, Q, and Noble safely tucked away. Alexie slid in next to Mac and slammed the door shut just as the jeep exploded in a screaming fury of metal, flames, and gas.

The car took off and he settled back, half listening to Mackenzie berating Big Brother speech, kinda felt like slamming his fist into Mac's face just to make the point clear. Don't do stupid shit or you get a black eye. Mackenzie wouldn't like that though, last time ALexie took it upon himself to teach his little brother a lesson he got a black eye. Instead, he leaned on the car door and faced Mac, titled his mask up enough he could see his face, and stared at him with his eery glass blue eyes, "Prodolzhay delat' glupoye der'mo i plokho zhopu porvu margala vikoliu" Keep doing stupid shit and I’ll rip your ass and poke out your eyes. He loved the look on Mac's face whenever he spoke Russian to him, could never tell if his dick just sprang up or he was shitting himself.

He flicked his eyes over to Mackenzie and gave a gracious smile before sitting back forward and keeping his eyes on the headrest.

“Um, maybe don’t move so much?” it’s obviously taken as a suggestion and not a medical opinion, as passive aggressive as it was, and all Casper can really do is follow everyone’s blatant disregard for basic sanitation with frantic eyes as fingers slip in and out of the wound and a sweaty t-shirt finds new use as gauze. In all fairness, he can’t fault her on that last one; gotta stop the bleeding and all that, but… he brought gauze? Like a decent amount of it? His heart picks up when Quin takes it upon herself to crawl into the backseat, getting comfortable in their labs just as the phone rings and fuck it, if she’s not concerned he isn’t either (that’s what he tells himself), reaches behind him for his medical stuff with one hand and presses the t-shirt down with the other. Throw's a look Bambi's way when she finally notices her favorite play-thing splayed out in the back; lord knows she didn't need anymore distractions, but you know what they say about the horse you ride into hell on being the best and all that. If Quin can hemorrhage and chat he supposes Bambi can smother and steer at the same time.

Ugh, now he's distracted.

It’s obviously not life threatening, gives the laziest of nods when Quin asks him about whether or not he can fix it up. Behind chain smoking, bullet holes and stab wounds were his favorite pastime and it’d been a minute since anyone had really needed some serious care.

Not like those cops were really trying to make him work this time. What were they aiming for, anyway? He pours some peroxide over his hands, caps the bottle and tosses it to the side as he inspects the reasonably non life threatening injury. Everybody knows headshots are how you stop somebody. Though, that’s probably not in their protocol, and he is lowkey happy their fearless leader isn’t dead. Just wondering why the cops didn’t try to challenge him, is all.

He wants to complain when Bambi’s hands are in his face as she reaches into the backseat, but Quin’s swatting back and even though Dylan’s saying something about hurrying the fuck up they don’t seem all that pressed for time. Casper pulls out everything he needs, pushes everything else to the side when Bambi finds herself preoccupied with a row of patrol cars. Part of him thinks he should be concerned. More so wonder’s why his mind doesn’t even make the connection that the police could fire into the car and it’d be a wrap. Casper pry’s the t-shirt off of Quin’s side and wipes some of the blood away with whatever dry part is left, remembers that this was the best they could do as far as actual shooting went and it doesn’t matter anyway because Bambi’s already peeling off. And no one could say she couldn’t drive worth a damn, that’s for sure.

He could do without some of the bumps - tryna patch a hole back here - but still, very much so worth a damn, that chick.

It’s a through-and-through like she mentioned, writes her increased heat rate off to adrenaline, rules out a pneumothorax and only gets slightly upset that he won’t get to put in a chest tube. Wouldn’t get to use his knife. It’d be a waste of both their time to search for fragments judging by the entry; neither they nor the bullet did any catastrophic damage that would require him to open up her chest. No fracture signs, doesn’t feel anything like a subcutaneous emphysema, diaphragm's fine. Her biggest hurdle would be infection and blood loss, eventually hypovolemia, but knows it won’t get that far. Takes a plunger full of Celox out of the wrapping and let’s the hemostat do the work of increasing blood clotting. Packs the space, eases back in his seat when the ride smooths out while he compresses the wound, one hand over the other.

The sight of two sedans lets him know they made it to the next phase of the plan. Opens the door and helps Quin slide out, hooks an arm around her waist as they make their way into the black sedan. He’d have to get her on some antibiotics and clean it out regularly, wouldn’t go near it with sutures for at least the next week or so, but everything he could do in the moment had been done. Helps her get into the seat before he takes a seat on the concrete, wipes his hands off on his shirt, resigns himself to just be a mess when his equally stained shirt doesn’t do much good and it’s not like blood ever stopped him from getting in his usual nicotine fix. Lights up and watches everyone else get to work moving money around and setting the jeep on fire.

“Oh, it goes without saying, but at least try to take it easy,” he looks over at Quin sitting in the sedan, genuinely concerned but also well aware of who he was dealing with. Knowing her she’d mess around and the whole thing would start bleeding again. By now Bambi’s coming back, Andreas not far behind, and he takes the moment to finally get in the car before they're taking off again. “Like wait a few weeks before you whip out that big pink strap on.”

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A torrential downpour of problems gave way to a final showdown between cop and car. Bambi's fast thinking as usual a blessing not so much in disguise. Lucia let the thrill of warp speed chase her blood into a thunderous storm pounding in her head. Her shoulder hurts when she rolls it back, cracking her back in the process. But the pain is good, so very good. Keeps her grounded to the spot, living and breathing in the air of urgency. Each fresh bruise a fucking fantastic reminder of being alive.

She allowed the shortest few seconds to slip on a mask of concern for their fearless leader. Long enough to determine that Quin has her shit handled just fine. No need to cloud the air with words of worry while they had more pressing matters to attend to. Like getting to the drop off point and heading for the rendezvous. Everyone seems to have their own shit going on so Lucia keeps to herself, picking at the fraying threads of her shirt. Time for something new, she'll hit up a thrift store in whatever shit hole they land at once the excitement dies down from this job.

Watching the scenery pass by isn't exactly the most exciting thing but it gets the job done, before long they've pulled up to the other vehicles. Pushing out and away from the one they once occupied. She wants to drift towards Ash but the thunder in Dylans gaze keeps her away. She doesn't feel like butting into their business, not with the tension so high. The only good thing about it is getting the car keys only a few moments later, grinning wildly. She's no Bambi, she doesn't think anyone can match up to the pure frenetic energy that comes off of their driver, but she's got her own distaste for speed limits and road rules.

Pair that with the conscious need to run at full speed towards impending death and you've got one hell of a volatile mixture. She slides into the drivers seat with a mildly angry promise to stay at the speed limit. She knows its important to stay under the radar if they can help it. But the thought of driving that slow while listening to the brothers awkward conversation in the backseat isn't something she's really here for. She silently reaches towards the radio and tilts the dial up as far as she dares. It won't be enough to drown out the tensions of the car but at least the sound will be a nice distraction.

The general idea is to get to the next state over, Kentucky, an odd mixture of Southern and Midwestern that never fails to displease her. This is going to be a hell of a long drive and with her adrenaline fading into relaxation she can start to feel every ache and pain in her body. At least she won't doze off while driving. She keeps her eyes to the road, watches brick and asphalt fade into grass and dirt. Taking back roads to avoid unwanted attention despite the fact that it'll only lengthen the trip.

Spring air filters in through the cracked window and though she tries to stop herself she still lights up and proceeds to drag off the last few pulls of a half smoked cigarette left in her diminishing pack. Hand half posed out the window, the wind taking the ashes she flicks gratefully. She could really use something stronger than this, but there will be time for that later.

She's never been to Kentucky before, in fact there were few places she had ever been before joining up with this ragtag team. Her father had lived and breathed Wilmington, called it hearth and home. Content to stay there so long as business never dried up, and it never did. Why would it after all, the people there were scum and they deserved everything they got from him.

This place is different, the fields are never ending in some places and broken apart by thick tree's in others. She barely remembers going over the states in Geography class but she's sure she must have read about Kentucky at some point. About its endless cave systems and beautiful scenery. The way the grasslands turned blue and hazy in the springtime, just as they were now as she drove on by. A visual mirage reminding her of every pretty pill she's ever let take her on a ride. If ever there was a place she could imagine herself settling down it probably wouldn't be here. People like her could only hope to be a smudge on the existence of things far prettier.

Hours passed by without Lucia's notice, they only stopped if necessary, rarely anywhere with an abundance of people. They were fresh off a crime and no matter how relaxed there could always be a hint of danger just on the horizon. Lucia took that to heart despite the way she casually shrugged off most warnings. Once out on the dusty dirt roads she took the speed up, they were close by the time fatigue hit her squarely in the gut. Eyes wanting to shut but mind working through a dozen reasons why she had to stay awake.

They say tired drivers are worse than Drunks, and Lucia really understands that in that moment. But still, its just a few more hours push towards the final destination. And it goes by in the blink of an eye.

Everywhere has a place like this, a strip of seedy motels smack dab in the center of a teeming cityscape. Even Rural Kentucky falls prey to the scams of its human nature. Nowhere is safe from it. She pulls in, whips around with a new cigarette between her lips, the last one in her pack. She doesn't remember lighting it, doesn't remember smoking the other three either. She knows the others will already be here, they had a head start after all. They'd disperse into separate cash only motels, separate rooms. All on the same strip but apart in case people got suspicious about eight wildly different strangers bunking up together.

"Aight fuckers," She pulls a long breath off the filter, before grounding the cherry out against the top of her knee. It doesn't burn through her pants, but the thrill of knowing it could have gets her off all the same. "If anyone asks I've gone to go get fucked up," And with that, she chucked the keys back to Dylan and slid out. Heading off towards the Super 8 next door.

She digs through her pockets till she's got a handful of bills and a couple of pretty white packets. Shit, yes, she didn't think she had any of that left.

xThings settle into a rigid calm after the revelations at hand. Between talk of big pink dildos and take it easys theres a relative amount of normalcy crawling on numb limbs back into place - or, rather their version of normal (which frankly isn't normal at all.) The pit of his gut no longer swarms with the infections high of adrenaline, the stone lodged in his esophagus spit into the wind while Bambi tears a path from road to road, going this way and that while the car figures itself out. Passengers moving on from the calamity and into something more like 'okay'. Quin is fine, they have the money, and only two people (He thinks, he hopes.) had to die for it. He relaxes into the seat, sags with the relief of being far from the scene of the crime. It takes a few even breaths to do it, but he gets there - eventually.

The group splits. Wherever Dylan goes, Ash and Alexie are quick to follow; Lucia, can be here or there with an ease that makes Andreas more than nervous about her on any given day. Its a damn good thing she's on their side. Hell, its a damn good thing that they all work cohesively, he couldn't imagine the damage that could be done if they didn't. But they do, and thats what counts in these small moments in-between heists. When bonds could stretch thin with the emotional backwash.

Andreas settles into the new car easy, watches through the window as the old car is blown sky high, destroying any evidence of them ever being there. Its as effective in wiping their memory as it is destructive. He doesn't care much for that kind of show, his desires lay in sleek metal.

Most at home with artillery in hand or on hip, flashbangs and knives and all of those pretty little toys he keeps stored in places that don't really matter. Sudden, deep, realization hits him. Its not unusual for them to fire off a gun but this had been a bigger hit, more of a challenge. No doubt Ballistics has already cleaned up their mess, picked those bullets up off the ground and examined them for any defining evidence. None of his acquired weapons are legally registered. The serial numbers filed off as soon as they pass through the supplier. Nothing to really, truly define them. Nothing but the bullets with their rifling, spirals scored into them upon firing. Its enough for them to figure out the model, but without the guns in hand -

There is nothing to worry about logically, but Andreas itches at the thought of having to toss any of their weapons. His attachment issues never ceasing. He's had this melt down before, and probably will every time they wind up killing someone on the job. Robbing the bank is one thing, firing off a few warning shots is a usual, but murder has a larger impact. Gets all the right people from high places involved. Drags their attention faster than flies on shit. Starts them down the path to identification and he'd be damned if he got -

Nope, he's not going to go down this road again. Not while they're in the car at least. He can find his peace in silent meditation, and later, when they get to the rendezvous he'll find the closest gym to work away the feeling that constricts his breathing.

He closes his eyes, lets the stale air in the car wash over him, and lets his worries seep away. Hand rubbing over the muzzle of his gun, the one he really needs to tuck away but can't bring himself to.

He's with Bambi, Casper, and Quin. On the road to Kentucky, a pre-determined location that he only vaguely remembers being informed of but Andreas mostly stays out of those discussions. He's not all that good with fine details, plans have never been his forte. In retrospect, he thinks thats probably a good thing. Too many bets in one pool and nothing would get done. And he's got enough on his hands when it comes to his own job in their unique little Octet. Its no fucking joke trying to get in touch with people who deal their arms in back alleys.

Most of them being fuck all crazy survivalists with a dozen conspiracy theories under their belt. Abruptly, Andreas wanders if he sounds like them when he mentions his faith to the others. He doesn't speak of it often, he understands most of them and their feelings about it, but he knows that they see him sometimes. Hand placed over the cross tattoo on his chest. A comfort, in times where he spirals out of control. Too far for his usual vices to reel him back in. Even a man as selfish as him can find conviction.

---

Its one of those road trips.

Andreas remembers being a kid, sitting in the backseat of his fathers busted up lincoln as they drove away from Wilmington and off into the sunset. Often only going as far as the next city, sometimes, during the holiday season going further and further. Out past state limits on a winding route up towards Pennsylvania or even as far as New York where family and friends awaited their arrival with great anticipation. Those days were often unbearably hot, or unbearably cold dependent on the season - the car had no temperature control whatsoever. But Andreas had never really minded. He'd turn in his seat, staring out the window as he named each passing sign on the side of the road.

This wasn't exactly the same, he was in a car with three other adults all packing heat with more intent to kill than Andreas alone could ever muster. Its hard to remember sometimes how very different life once was. Its hard to remember that he'd once been afraid to harm even the smallest of flies. Its funny, then sad, and funny again when he starts silently naming the signs at the edges of the road in his head. There aren't many to see, spread out sparsely over field upon field. Too much countryside. He's a city boy himself, always had been always will be.


They've been going at it for a while when Bambi decide to pull into a truck stop. Andreas opens his mouth to protest the stop, wants nothing to do with the shady place but Bambi's already pulling in much to his displeasure.

“My type of establishment - whaddya reckon, titty bar or pervy anime porn dispensary?” Lord. He hopes its neither. He's not sure he could handle that right now.

But at least its a chance to stretch his legs a little, sitting for long makes him feel useless. Lazy, even. He hates feeling that way. Stretches just as soon as his feet hit solid ground, walking a ways away from the car. He hates truck stops, if not for the seedy business then for the wear and tear. As if nobody knows how to upkeep these middle of nowhere buildings.

Plus, he's convinced none of these places have ever heard of disinfectant.

He does a few laps, keeps the car in sight as their group dispersed, he doesn't see Quin so she must still be sleeping. Decides not to pop into the convenience portion of the stop. He leaves that to Bambi and whoever else follows. He'd rather avoid seeing just how right he is about the place.

The stop is a bit short for his liking, but they need to get back on the road. More than anything he's tired as hell, wants to lay down and sleep but the bumpy ride doesn't allow much in terms of shut eye. By the time they get there, he knows, he'll be wide awake again. Having lost the chance to sleep while at a pleasant level of tired.

---

The motel isn't as horrible as he expects, at least from the outside looking in.

There's a level of comfort in the anonymity that it affords and for all of his usual gripes its a far cry from what he expects. Maybe its the exhaustion getting to him. Despite the loss of tiredness. Finally getting here has afforded him a level of energetic buzzing that he hasn't felt in a while. Maybe they'll all celebrate tonight. Knock back hard liqour in honor of the clean-ish getaway they made.

But for the moment -

“I’m going to go buy some tobacco,” Bambi announces, “I’ll find you guys.” and Andreas wonders if thats really how its going to happen.

"Cool," He mumbles, stretches his arms and sighs. "I need a shower." He supplies his own whereabouts for the next hour at least.

The party is just getting started.

---

“Get us a room, yeah?” Yeah. He can do that.

He tracks the quick movements of his little brother as he tries to catch up with Volkov. One of these days he's going to have to sit the kid down and talk about what's going on in his head. But today isn't that day, they all need the rest. And, unfortunately, there are wounds that have been rubbed raw in the aftermath. They need to find solid ground. Settle down long enough to screw their heads back on in a way that isn't slapping on a liquid bandaid.

Not that he isn't looking forward to losing himself in a bottle like the rest of them.

The Motel they've chosen is a run down shithole just like every other motel in every other state they've called 'mock home' in the short stops between banks. This is the kind of place where blowjobs are done in the parking lots and the chances of the beds being anything but infested with bugs is fairly low. He stands for a while, leaning against the car with a cigarette trapped between his lips. Not inhaling, just letting the smoke flow around him, the taste of it thick on his tongue. Deadly little sticks, but that makes them all the more thrilling to inhale.

He scans the immediate area, looking for each visible exit by car - and then by foot. Just in case. Even though the cops have never chased them across state lines it's still safe to assume there will be a high alert on them. Robbery is no joke, but banks... it's a damn wonder they haven't caught federal eye yet. Maybe they have. They're all sitting on too much fucking money right now, accumulated from various banks. Hell, the profit from this hit alone has them swimming up to their shoulders in the green.

They need to sit down and talk about how they're going to keep moving onwards. They need more stability than can be afforded by a constant on the run lifestyle. Not to mention half the bank notes they've acquired likely have an identifiable trace on them. So far it's been easy to get by on shitty motels and fast food but it's quickly becoming an unfavorable option.

Suddenly disinterested in the nicotine he tosses it aside. Smiles a little at the thought of what Ashley would say if he saw Dylan throwing away an entire half of a cigarette - it's not like they don't have plenty to spare between all of them. The damn junkies that they are. Amazing, how over half of their group suffers the same vices - or perhaps not amazing at all, they all came from the same or similar roots after all. In a manner of speaking.

He's halfway to the lobby when he see's the panhandler posted up just on the corner of the building, a grimy, grim-faced old man who could pose for anybody's grandfather given a decent shave. He's got the usual cardboard tear-away of a sign scrawled in feverish chicken scratch letters. 'God bless you.' A tin dish at his feet; Looks as if he's posing straight from the stereotype itself. Dylan wants to bypass without a glance but can't help but be drawn to stare at the sign itself.

And wonder what God had ever done for anyone to have deserved the belief of a man so far down on his luck.

Pity, but these days it's almost as likely to find a millionaire posing as a vagrant just as easily as you could find a true one. He moves on passed, through the door, and into the heat soaked lobby. Sweat instantly breaks out over every inch of him. Had they never heard of air conditioning? Perhaps not, if he could say anything about this place already it would be that they were on the cheap side in all aspects.

Including employee welfare, it seems. The clerk is laid out over a stack of home-life magazines. The kind you'd expect to find in a dentist's office. The kid (because it's highly unlikely he's any older that Ashley from the looks of him) is half naked with a water bottle held to one cheek. The clerk looks up as soon as he registers that there is a customer there - the bell above the door had fallen off quite some time ago.

Dylan slaps a handful of cash on the counter without looking, holding up two fingers; He'll spare the cash for a second room even though he knows its unlikely that he'll have a room to himself at all, not that he minds. There is no verbal exchange for several minutes as he watches the kid struggle internally on whether or not to ask for a name for his reservation. Eventually, the kid lets out a put-upon sigh and writes something in the ledger. Leans back to grab two sets of keys and turns back to Dylan with a frown scrawled across his face.

"Two bottom floor rooms for a Mr. Jones."

Satisfactory, at least he knows by the way the kid refuses to look directly at him that they'll have full discretion. He wonders just how many times the clerk has been through this. A run-down place like this, with as many shady characters as he's seen already. Its probably a routine thing at this point. He nods, takes the keys, and leaves.

Can't help but toss the bum a couple of dollars as he passes by again. Can't fuckin help himself, no matter how hard it makes him cringe internally. Generosity shouldn't kill him quite as much as it does.

Maybe by the time he gets their shit unloaded everyone will be in the same relative place. Enough so that they can sit down and discuss the next steps. Because, they really, really need to do that.

In fact, he can't stop himself from shooting off a quick group message in general, informing them that the party is on in his room - it's the easiest way to get the group in one place without the headache of dragging anyone in. The burner phone he's been using for the past few weeks is nearly past its expiration in terms of being a safe phone to use. He'll need to chuck it the next chance he gets. But for now, it serves its purpose.

Afterwards, he gathers their shit. The bags he and Ashley carry with them are scarcely filled with their own things. Half the contents usually belonging to one another and in Ashley's case an odd conglomeration of stolen shit and things he doesn't fucking need. But that's beside the point (they've already had the essentials talk, and if need be they'll have it again.) he grabs anything else of value out of the car on the return trip.

Once that's done he flops down onto the hard as rocks mattress, afraid to peel back the blankets just yet. He props his head against the thin pillows and sighs. Now, he just has to wait.

He knew Mac was following him, knew that little fucker of a shadow was behind him without looking. He could always assume the youngest Mackenzie would come along, especially with alcohol and drugs on the receiving end.

Sometimes he didn’t mind the shitty brat. Sometimes, he was even amused by the absolutely ridiculousness that was Ashley fucking Mackenzie. Maybe it was the long car ride, maybe it was because they’d just successfully pulled of a kick-ass heist, maybe it was because getting shit faced on vodka loomed on the horizon, but Alexie slowed his pace so Mac could fall in step next to him as they crossed the trash littered street. He didn’t say anything, but Mac usually talked enough for the both of them.

Mac’s going on about some shit and Alexie’s brain drifts back to blood smeared tile and face’s twisted in terror and pain. He lips shiver into something like a smile, the vile and beautiful memory both arousing and amusing at the same time. Not every job ended like that- He tossed a glance at the little fucker babbling next to him- but not every job ended in some asshole sporting an unloaded gun. Mac had already been berated, but Alexie did have to admit that without this dumb shit next to him there would have been at lot less blood today.

And he really, really liked blood.

He open’s the door for the kid, his tall frame filling the doorway as he ushers him in under his arm. The store is empty except for the cashier, whom Alexie walks straight past and heads directly towards the vodka.

“Piz’da, shut up, pick out the vodka” Alexie glances at Mac for a split second to make sure his mouth had quit moving before gesturing at the wall of various shaped clear bottles. Of course, he’d already picked out the one he wanted, but it amused him like nothing else to see Mac squirm under his direct attention. The little fucker drank whatever was passed his way, but maybe he’d paid enough attention to know the good shit when he saw it.

He can tell the twitchy shit just wants to reach for the Grey Goose and go, but his hand veers left and grabs hold of that sacred bottle of green and gold.

“Molodets” He flashes teeth in a snarling grin of approval and he leans in to grab the handle of Green Mark. Makes sure his tattooed hands drag slow across Mac’s, just enough to force a visible shiver out of him. How fucking fantastic is it that all he has to do is touch and this little shithead is a mushy pile of bad tattoos and sex? Alexie’s grin grows a bit more savage as he pulls away, keeps those stark blue eyes locked on hungry brown, before winking, grabbing a twin bottle, and stalking towards Bam and Q at the register.

He sets the bottles on the counter a little too roughly, earning him an earnestly startled look from the cashier. That, or it's just the normal fear/surprised he gets from strangers at his appearance. Tall, rough, tattooed, angry, and Russian- people generally labeled him on site and stayed clear. Not that he was denying he’d rather curb stomp most of their fuckin’ heads in then get on with the ludicrous American ‘how’d ya do’s’, but he was always mesmerized by how quickly people seemed to figure him out. It made him itch to show them just how right they were.

But, Alexie decided to ignored the scrambling fucker behind the counter fumbling with the cash he'd tossed his way, his attention already diverting to the little woman next to him. His gaze locked down on Bam, barely covered in that goddamned loose white t-shirt.

“Malen'kiy olen… krasavitsa” He rumbled, letting an uncharacteristically soft hand drag down her back.

Alexie did little to stifle his gaze as he dragged his eyes over her, slowing on her perked breasts before wrapping an arm around her and squeezing. He sent one scathing look back at Mac, who was hovering behind him with his hands jammed deep in his pockets, even more awkward then usual. Alexie couldn’t stop the vicious grin that ripped across his face, nor could he control it before turning back to the cashier for his change. Fucker jumped so hard he looked like he was about to piss himself or press the panic button, his sweating hands trembling as he handed over a few bills. Alexie stared at him hard, almost laughing when a few coins clattered to the ground. The cashier rushed to the ground to pick up the change, but Alexie ignored him and took his leave.

With Mac behind him (as expected) Alexie walked briskly across the busy street back to the dead-beat motel. Mackenzie had figured out their rooms by now- right in front of the cars, easy access to the road if they needed to leave quickly. Alexie trusted that man with his life, so he didn’t worry much after taking a quick look around the parking lot. Safe as they were going to be tonight.

Mackenzie was flopped on the bed when he entered, tossing the door closed behind him and leaving Mac out in the cold. Even with all the shit Alexie throws at him, kid still followed him around like an imprinted duckling. And sure enough, Mac opened the door just as Alexie was flopping down and stretching his long legs out on the loveseat across from Mackenzie’s bed. Alexie ignored him, although he does shift slightly to give the shit room next to him on the small couch.

He unscrewed one of the bottles and took a swig, handing the vodka over to Mac without even a glance. He planned on finishing at least one of them tonight and he trusted the kid next to him could finish off a healthy dose as well. Alexie sent a slow glance next to him, realizing that Mac was one of the few that could actually keep up with him... relatively. It sent a strange wave of pride and irritation through him- a strange concoction of feelings he was used to associating with his cellmates younger brother, but bothered him nonetheless.

“Mackenzie, napitok?” Alexie asked, wrenching the bottle free from Mac to hand across the small divide between couch and bed and turning away from the little distraction next to him.

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Ash isn’t really sure what he’s talking about but his mouth feels like it’s moving a mile a minute. He knows Alexie isn’t actually listening so he supposes it doesn’t matter. His fingers feel itchy from leftover anxiety and he runs them through his hair, tugs at his ear, rubs at the back of his neck, to keep from fucking taking something. Bottles are too goddamn big anyway.

He can still feel Dylan hugging him too tightly and Alexie’s leg pressed against his and it’s making him jittery and he just wants to get fucking drunk and - Piz’da. His thoughts trail off and his mouth stops moving and he blinks dumbly at Alexie for a moment because there’s no way he heard what he thought he heard. But Alexie gestures at the rows of vodka and okay. Okay.

The fact of the matter was, Ash would drink literally anything with alcohol content, but given the crew he hung out with he generally knew the good brands. He’s shifty and hot under Alexie’s attention and his hand moves towards Grey Goose before something else catches his eye.

He hardly recognizes Green Mark without tattooed knuckles wrapped around the bottleneck but he knows with sudden clarity that that’s the right answer so he snatches the damn thing off the shelf and holds it out to Alexie.

He doesn’t know what ‘Molodets’ means, it’s a new word, but Alexie’s sharp smile is made up of approval and Ash’s stomach twists. He wants to hear it again. Maybe a lot. And he’s expecting Alexie just to grab the bottle but he doesn’t, their hands touch, skin on skin and warm and Ash hates his fucking body for the way a shiver crawls up his spine and his head goes a little dizzy. He’s given less reaction to goddamn blowjobs before.

He wants to say something - do something - maybe get his fists in Alexie’s shirt and yell at him to fucking kiss him already. Hard. Slam him into shit, break stuff, bite and claw and… blue eyes are digging into his and Ash is pretty sure he’s holding his fucking breath and when Alexie goddamn winks at him it all comes spiraling down in a hot flash of goddamn arousal.

The moment Alexie’s gone, Ash clears his throat and shoves his hands down deep in his pockets. His clothes are baggy for a fucking reason and it sure does help out in this moment. Bambi and Quin followed them in and he doesn’t bother sparing them a glance, just hangs back and waits until they can go.

The cashier is 50 Shades of Terrified and it’s really nothing new but this time Ash sees the stark parallel between the guy who thinks he might die tonight and himself - half hard in a liquor store he legally shouldn’t even be in. They’re both looking at the same man but having very different reactions.

He wonders for a moment how many times his fucking parents dropped him on his head to make him this suicidal. Or this masochistic, he corrects, as he watches Alexie’s gaze slide down Bambi’s body. Yeah, he gets it. She’s fucking adorable, they all know that. It still goddamn stings and he tries not to let it show when Alexie looks back at him like a motherfuckin cat that’s just seen a fuckin’ mouse.

Whatever. He swipes a couple travel sized bottles and something questionably labeled that promises no hangovers in the morning. Nobody was looking, and then they’re leaving. Or, well, Alexie is, and Ash is a goddamn loser and can’t help but follow.

He thinks maybe he talks again but his mind is spinning and all he’s really paying attention to is Alexie’s back and he’s wondering if he still has some X on him. Maybe he should find Lucy after all because he’s a little too wound up. He could call her, he supposes, she’d answer for him even if she’s already - slam.

Ash draws up short, too fucking close to the shitty peeling paint of motel door 105. His running thoughts collide like they got shut out too and he kicks at the damn thing with his foot. “Fucker!” he calls, opens the door, and sends his middle finger up at the Russian sprawling on the cheap ass couch.

Dylan’s laying on the bed already looking done with their shit even though Ash hasn’t started anything yet. He gathers from his brothers face that there’s not really a party like earlier texts may have suggested but rather a meeting and he sighs to himself, thinking of where to sit, when Alexie shifts. It’s not much space but it’s just enough room for him and he doesn’t let himself fucking hesitate before he claims the spot as his own.

He tells his dick to fucking behave while they’re in polite - well, Dyl’s company and takes the vodka when it’s offered to him. It’s warm and smooth down his throat and this is the kind of shit he could drink forever, honestly, but Alexie snatches the bottle back. He glares because there’s fucking two of them but whatever. He guesses Dylan deserves a drink as anyone.

Ash stretches out as much as he dares - which is actually quite a lot since apparently his survival instinct got lost somewhere, and asks his brother, “What’s up? I’m guessing we’re all gonna have a ‘talk’ huh?”

Quinn watches Alexie with guardedness. She is fucked up, but even she was wary of him. Common sense says he is male, and she female, therefore no matter how strong she is, he is stronger. As much as it annoys her she knows it is true. Quin’s eyes drift towards her companion, Bambi. If the gods are real, she tells herself, then this woman is their masterpiece. She was a living work or art, her elegant body, so tempting to touch; every move giving away her strength and grace. Quin licks her lips and clears her throat quietly as she realizes she has been staring at the hot piece of ass for a few too many minutes.



Quins cold gaze shot back to Alexie. She watches him drag his gaze down Bambi’s body and feels rage tear through her. Her fists ball involuntarily and she feels her face harden. She hates Alexie for a moment, blind rage makes her want to break the vodka bottle over his head and slice his throat with the shards, maybe even slice a few other pieces. Her lips curl in a vicious smile as she imagines doing just that…and then she recalls his place in the group, the muscle. Everyone has a place, and she would be damned if she was auditioning anyone else. With a sigh she rolls her shoulders, still watching the Russian.



He is all muscles and bad attitude. It was unsurprisingly attractive. She has a terrible taste in men. She is acutely aware of how long it has been since she has had companionship of any kind. Between her siblings and her job, and now this, it had been too damn long. Fuck, she felt like she might have regrown her virginity at this point. She is sure Alexie would be a good ride, but that was just another fantasy she has to tuck away. She doesn’t make a habit of mixing business with pleasure, things get messy which is why she hasn’t jumped Bambi’s fine ass. She smoked heavily, in silence, as if abstracted.

“Fuckin’ Russian” she mutters under her breath before she grabs a bottle of Patron Silver off the shelf and drops a twenty on the counter. She watches Alexie leave and follows silently. She detours slightly, over to the cars, wanting some air and space. She drinks heavily from the bottle, loving the burn. It washes away all of the days anxiety. Quin brushes her hair back and drops her cigarette and snubs it out under the toe of her shoe. Quin looks up at the night sky, the pitch-black curtain drapes over the world around her, and the the milky speckles twirl and dance along the sky in various patterns.



Quin is reminded of the fact that she has a g a p i n g hole in her side with each breath. She took another deep pull from her bottle of Potron. Her pain was evident in the crease of her lovely brow and the down-curve of her full lips. She winced with each step yet persisted until she reached their cars. She leans lightly against the car. She felt contented to rest against the car and let the cool metal press against her heated skin. She took one last drag of the cigarette she stole from Bambi and drops it, smashing it under foot. She takes a few moments to work through the realization that she had been shot. Not for the first time, and she was sure it was not going to the last. She has that affect on people. This is going to slow down their plans, just a tad. She will have to come up with a new game plan to accommodate the wound. With one last deep exhale she realizes she should probably re-convene with her group.

Quin squares her shoulders and heads to the room she watched Alexie walk in. She doesn’t knock, knocking is for pussies.

“What’s up? I’m guessing we’re all gonna have a ‘talk’ huh?” She hears Ash ask.

“Damn straight we need to talk. What the actual fuck where you thinking you twat waffle?” She says with as much venom she could muster towards Ash. It baffles her but she cares about him, cares in the sense that it might suck if he died.

“You could have died you ass hat. More than that you could have gotten us caught. Seriously you have to use your fuckin’ head kid. I am not a huge fan of the idea of having to replace you because you got your pretty face blown off by a dumb piece of shit.” She barks but as she passed him she patted him on the cheek lightly.



“Seriously, be more careful or i'll kick your skinny ass.” She says before she flops on the bed next to Dylan, her wound making her cringe.

“I need weed” She grumbles, she does not want anything hard as she needs to be able to think clearly, or as clearly as she could tolerate.