Hit 'Em Right Between the Eyes - Mafiatale

Chapter 4

~-~-~Amber's POV~-~-~

      Well then. You got... BONED. You giggle when you think about rewatching youtube in your alley with all your stuff - and spikes; you allow yourself another bout of laughter when you think about that - right next to your workplace for both of your jobs. It was perfect in every way, and he ruined it. Halting your creepy, high-pitched chuckles mid-way, you glare at him, pretending to shoot daggers into his body. Which makes you start smiling in childish amusement.

      Comic has a look of unease on his face as he holds you in the air. He's not doing anything, so you wait and stare at him, doing the exact same. Even though you're actually readying all of your weapons, including some spikes hidden in bracelets, which are currently being very, very cold on your wrists.

      No one speaks. Time to get serious, then. You let your face go totally deadpan, but can't hold it in and grin like a hyena, laugh matching one as well. Comic grimaces; you probably gave yourself away. Shit~. Whatever. You don't think it'll affect your attack if you just wait... a little more...

      Aaaand... now. Pounce. You've been contemplating this battle for quite a few minutes, and you have it down. Feint, which he's expecting, feint again, which he was kind of expecting, feint again, which he was surprised about, then abandon your dagger entirely, shoving it into your toolbelt. In the same move, you whip out your gun, wrap your legs around his neck, and put the cold metal up to his bleach-white skull, knocking off his navy fedora in the process.

      Comic is speechless. You wait - rather patiently, you think - for him to speak, not moving. It gives you time to observe. He's sweating ( somehow? Theory for another day ), breathing heavily. Grillby is nowhere to be seen, they split up.

      The alley you two are in is dark. Very dark. Black, actually. When did everything get black? Now you notice that Sans is all white. You are too. Hovering in front of your chest is a small, clear, jewel-like heart? Again, think about it later, into that metaphorical brain bucket it goes.

      Still waiting...

      Waiting some more...

      The hell's taking him so long??!!

      Ugh, whatever. You'll just take matters into your own hands. "Night, Blue~" you whisper in his ear. You feel him turn to ice before you smash the gun into his head, jumping off of him before he fell, the impact pushing his cranium into the pavement with an unfortunately loud, resounding crack!

       You hope upon hope upon hope, hope until they're stacked like pancakes, that no one heard, and if they did, they didn't notice, and if they even noticed an ordinary sound like that, they don't care enough to investigate. You make no more noise after that, true to your name, as you drag his unconscious body through the alleys of your city, and neither does he.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

      Finally, you found another temporary home that suits all your needs. Your 'work clothes' have all been compromised because you fought in them, and anyone that sees you is sure to make a connection. You keep them anyways, for sentimental reasons, after giving them a particularly thorough checking of any bugs ( If you don't know what I'm talking about, I'm talking about trackers, get hip and cool with the kids ).

      You tied - not entirely sure what to call him anymore, since he goes by three names, four by your standards, but you'll try to pick one - your captive up in a secure place, even going as far to use some of your ever-so-special duct tape, and some not-so-special rope. You also used spikes, for reinforcement, you swear! Why do you have an obsession with spikes again?