euphoria. ━︎━︎ RESERVOIR DOGS !

[ PROLOGUE ]

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : ❝Little Green Bag❞ - George Baker Selection

༺═──────────────═༻

HE WAS ALIVE. He was still alive, but he felt like he was about to die. Mr. Pink's heart raced like a drumbeat, each thud echoing the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He sits in the stolen car where he had to pull the woman out of the driver's seat by force and drop her onto the road like a bag of tools.

His fingers still gripped the steering wheel as if he was still driving. The shattered and cracked windshield in front of him is a reminder of his frantic escape. He was gasping for air, his chest rising and falling with the weight of what had just transpired. The world outside blurs. He couldn't keep count of the number of civilians he shoved passed on the streets, and he couldn't care less about the cop he shot at before ducking into the car and speeding away. Also, his hair gel gave out so it was disheveled, and his back was beyond sore. Sore was an understatement. He got hit by the same car he carjacked not after his body flew onto the windshield. Amidst the shitshow, one thought pierces through: he's alive. After all that, he's managed to survive the dumpster fire of a heist that backfired miserably, escaping with the briefcase of diamonds and his life intact.

Mr. Pink's heart could either race another mile or deflate at ease when he noticed an unfamiliar-looking car parked at the Rendez-Vous. He couldn't take it as either Joe or Eddie's car, but he did notice the baby seat at the back of the car. Did any of the guys have a kid? No. Another carjack.

The back seat had stains of blood all over. His stomach turns at the thought of a baby or a child being harmed during a carjack. He had to put it aside as he headed inside, seeing two faces he immediately recognized. And just like Pink, they were all in a state of shock.

"Was that a fucking setup, or what?!" Mr. Pink exclaims, his frustration palpable in his voice. As he storms over, his eyes fixate on the scene before him, the dim warehouse illuminated only by faint overhead lights. He catches sight of the pooling crimson liquid on the floor alike the backseat of the other car and winces, a secondary issue adding to his mounting anger. "Shit! Orange got tagged?"

"Gutshot," Mr. White's voice is weary, filled with a mix of exhaustion and concern.

"Where's, uh, Brown?" Mr. Pink's urgency is undeniable.

"Dead," Mr. White's reply is present, though his attention is still focused on the wounded man at his feet.

"How did he die?" Mr. Pink's voice is edged with a mix of disbelief and grim realization.

Mr. White's gaze lifts to meet Mr. Pink's, his own eyes tired and heavy from the weight of the situation. Was it not obvious how anyone else is doing right now? Who knows. But Mr. Brown, according to Mr. White, "How the fuck do you think? The cops shot him." The words hang in the air.

"This is bad. This is so fucking bad!" Mr. Pink cries out. He studies Mr. Orange's face. "Is it bad?"

Mr. White looked up again. "As opposed to good?"

Most definitely not. Without a doubt, it was far from good. "Man, this is fucked up." Mr. Pink starts pacing around. "This is so fucked up. Somebody fucked us up big time, man."

"You really think we were really set up?" Mr. White was locked in Mr. Pink's theory, which very likely might be true.

"You even doubt it, man? I don't think we got set up, I know we got set up! I mean, really, seriously! Where did all those cops come from, huh? One minute they're not there, then the next minute, they're there. I didn't hear any sirens!" And here Mr. Pink went, rambling and motor-mouthing. "The alarm went off, okay? When the alarm goes off, you've got an average of a 4-minute response time. Unless a patrol car is cruising down that street at any particular moment, you got four minutes before they can realistically respond! In one minute, there were seventeen blue boys out there, all loaded for bear, all knowing exactly what the fuck they were doing, man! They were all just there!"

He continues. "Remember that second wave, that showed up in the cars, okay? Those were the ones responding to the alarm, but those first motherfuckers - I'm telling you, man, they were there, and they were all waiting for us! Haven't you fucking thought about this?"

"I haven't had a chance to think," Mr. White says. "First I was just trying to get the fuck outta there. And after we got away, I've just been dealing with him," he refers to a bleeding Mr. Orange.

"Better start fuckin' thinkin' about it, man, 'cause that's all I've been thinking about, man. I wasn't even gonna come here. I was gonna drive, just drive off, man! Because whoever set us up knows about this place. There could've been cops here waiting for us. There could be cops coming here right now!" Mr. Pink kept pacing around, wishing he was in someone else's position right now; at home, at a skate park, music store, anywhere but here.

Mr. Pink was always right, well maybe not always, but he was right. They were set up. Dead cops, dead robbers, dead civilians - which was the last thing they all wanted dead. He wished he stayed home and sat this one out. He'd rather be somewhere else and not exceeding his heart rate in the red zone of this mess. 

"Let's go in the other room," Mr. White tells Pink. "Hey!" He calls out to him. Mr. Pink stops pacing around and sees the next room over. He disappears in there, hoping to empty out any other racing thoughts he had.

Mr. White was reassuring Mr. Orange that he would just be in the other room and that he wasn't going anywhere far. Poor Orange. A hardened dealer now crying like a child. The more he cried and groaned in pain and agony, the more he bled. Pink could hear him whimpering, begging White not to leave him, and that he was "gonna fucking die."

He begins pacing again.