Bullets. + Brashton

: deux :

Bryana Holly.

In her severe apprehension she pushes the blonde locks of her hair away from the expanse of her forehead; trails of pure sweat slowly trickle down her face in their own wake as she struggles to get a hold of the heavy piece of bronze clutched tightly in her grasp.

Her limbs tremble from the sudden coldness brought by the biting September wind, soft but heavy pants escaping her crimson coated lips as she feels the intense chilliness sipping through her veins.

Sounds of footsteps echo through the paper thin walls and her nervousness causes her to create a large pit in her stomach. She tries to shrug the feeling away, tries to ignore how chills are somehow being brought into her spine and the light behind the blood-stained drapes are blinding her at all costs but she fails unfortunately.

Although she thinks that it is quite unnecessary of her to latch her cautious footsteps onto the broad expanse of the tiled floor, or how she could visualize herself seeming like a deer caught in the headlights whenever she hears a sound, or a single shadow dancing against the plain white walls, she had been wanting to see whatever's been causing this turmoil just before they sent her in this facility.

Her chartreuse eyes absentmindedly cast a glance towards one particular corner in the room and she sees a silhouette, a dark figure hiding behind the tall wooden structures of the worn-out bookcase. The blonde takes a step closer toward the moving shadow and chews on her bottom lip as she fails an attempt to stop the uncontrollable quivering.

She tugs on the Beretta 92FS Brigadier in her hands and tightens her grasp around it. No, she isn't scared. She's done this countless of times and she's sure it's just another one of those vagabonds who were let loose by the officers securing their rusted town down the shadows of Brooklyn. She can't be like this.

The heavy thump of boots touching the floor jostles Bryana in her spot, catching her completely off-guard as profanities and other combinations of mantras escape her lips on a whim. It's not like she's afraid of whatever's been hiding underneath its shadows, but she's constantly been in denial of this, and she just can't get herself to stop from shivering once goose bumps arise on her skin. And yet, she refuses to give in. Maybe it's just an old vagabond and she's pretty much overreacting. Just maybe, she doesn't know.

"Well, it looks like Marcus has sent in another sheila of his, hasn't he? Wise bloke has chosen something so intriguing - envisaged something more mindful and pleasing in such a way I had not pondered onto before today."

The sudden sound coming out from the hidden corner flies out raspy and smug that it becomes foreign to the screaming silence. It startles Bryana, to say the least, and judging by the look of terror smeared across her facial features, it sure hadn't brought something better out of her from this.

Instead, it makes her sprint towards the other side of the room where a wall is built to divide his corner (she figures it's a he) from her side, pulls the pistol that's clutched in her hands into chest and keeps it close to the wall until it was fully being stretched out to point toward the direction of the source of the sound.

A glass falls to the ground - she doesn't see it, but hears it. The screech is louder in her ears than her racing heart as the sound of boots rubbing against the tiles hangs heavily in the atmosphere.

Bryana closes her eyes and tries to keep breathing. She can do this. Nicholas was right - Bryana's been loading guns and aiming targets since she was old enough to carry a 20-pound gun on her own. A pistol feels nice in her hand; she's clumsy sometimes, having shots aiming for something much different than intended, but when she's finally had a finger looping around the trigger, she's powerful and intense, every bullet aiming at every target. Thus, the world knows she's never missed.