got me wrong [BORIS]

[ROGERSON CUMMINGS]

Rogerson screamed. His bloodcurdling roar resonated throughout the brown, barren mountaintops miles away from Fallarbor Town, ricocheting back to him like the devil’s calling. Amber eyes shuttered open upon awakening from the terrifying nightmare, before realizing the true nightmare was irreversible. “Wh-what…” Rogerson began, eliciting a sharp cough from his beaten body. Beaten proved to be an understatement, as Rogerson was beaten from before this fateful day anyway; the sharp cuts adorning his side like stitches, the giant scar he bore on his chest since childhood, the characteristic arm bandaging –these were normal for the boy. However, fresh wounds screamed out to him immediately. A gushing slash across Rogerson’s right hip the size of his forearm easily drenched his black pants, while a cut above his right eye temporarily forced that eye close as blood greeted his bright eye; bruises lined up against his right side like bombs, his whole body vicariously afire. It was only after arising from the dusty, ash-adorned ground did Rogerson see the miniature puddle of blood his head had left behind; a anxious finger comb through the back of his drenched, matted blonde hair proved that death could have met him this day. He shivered before a long sigh escaped his bruised lip; if dying felt like this, then he was dying.

On the brightside, it was a beautiful day outside the Fallarbor Town limits. Although Rogerson had no recollection of how he got here, he easily recalled the calm, cloudy weather of his hometown-area. These wide, jagged mountains held an abundance of secrets for a researcher to unravel, while the ashy, distinctive scent in the air provided a homey feel. He was all alone up in these romantic parts, save for his bruised Flygon who lay sprawled out in defeat not too far away. Rogerson was far up and into the mountains by now, based on his increasingly difficult ability to breath, or was this caused by his injuries? Either way, he would always recall the best part about the Fallarbor area: the sweet, gentle ashes that fell, as if those consumed in flame were gently welcoming Rogerson to death…

“Fui, arise!” Rogerson attempted to command, his rough voice cracking in half. The blonde’s jagged breathing sharpened as he analyzed the sight of his maimed slave lying slain mere meters away. Fui, before the catastrophe, rode the skies as a not so free Flygon; Rogerson wished his lifelong experiment many more years of servitude, so, with great effort, he mustered the strength to stumble over to Fui before collapsing atop those sharp scales. He scrutinized the poor creature, placing those pale hands on top of him to analyze the damages. Fui’s subcutaneous being writhed under Rogerson’s cold touch, and his master managed a half smile out of relief. “You…y-you’re not dead yet, my Fui,” Rogerson whispered in a low purr, “our battle is not near halfway over.” Rogerson’s vision began to vacillate in and out as he ascertained Fui’s suffering: the once brilliant, jade wing was now dipped in the finest crimson, the scales on the right side of his body partly chipped, a bone here or there partially dislodged. A variety of other causalities bled on the melancholy dragon, but Rogerson failed to capture the true essence of Fui’s suffering, as he himself became consumed in his own pain.

“Tell me my child…how did we get here in the first place?” he condescendingly inquired. Fui craned his shivering neck up to shoot Rogerson a lifeless look of mistrust, yet Rogerson’s mind was already in overdrive. Oh, the paranoia! He was a terrible person. In the span of mere minutes (or hours, as the blood had caked, after all) which Rogerson buttressed himself against Fui (which enacted a painful groan from the bleeding creature), he conjured hundreds of causes affecting their current predicament. The list included everything from the logical to the radical: this was either a modest research mistake, or a failed suicide attempt. Other causes included everything in between, from that of pure rebel hatred causes to Fui himself attacking Rogerson; in Rogerson’s paranoid mind, this was no mistake. They lay there dying, the two of them, yet Rogerson had no cause or alibi. He wouldn’t die today without first executing his own killer – even if this meant waiting hours for his or her return.

“Now then, Fui! Listen: you’re not allowed to die today. I’d chase you down in the afterlife myself, if you were to leave me here! Instead…let me tell you about my dream,” the half delusional boy began as he continued to cuddle against his Pokemon, “…I believe I met my mother.” He continued this irrelevant tale, apathetic to the extenuating circumstances. An intelligent part of Rogerson remained fully cognizant to the brink of death he so nearly tiptoed on, a reasonable part of Rogerson fully aware of the searing pain ripping through him; yet, the vengeful, stubborn persona of Rogerson’s always won out. In his paranoid mind, somebody had attacked him and Fui, and he would bring his own revenge….the stupid boy. What he really needed, without admitting it, was help, for once in his life.

[BRITNEY TIMBERS]

She could feel the music pounding in the back of her head, probably because the bass has been turned up too high. Alcohol had flooded her brain, drowning her in a sea of incomprehension, poor judgment, and vivacious body movements. This was her job. She loved what she did. But a small part of her brain demanded if this was the only thing to exist. Demanded to know if she was serious about this dancing. But she suppressed those ideas and lost herself in the exotic twirl. She couldn't remember what she was wearing, how many drinks she'd had, or if she was even supposed to be working. All she could feel was the smooth cool pole that she had wrapped her leg around. She dropped her head back and her bright red hair spilled down her back like a red cape for a bull. Men lapped it up, she knew it. She couldn't tell if they were right now, but she knew, her body knew, from experience that it would work. A gutteral moan came from her mouth and she almost fell off. A pair of strong hands caught her and she could feel her body being pushed. Pushed and pushed and pushed until she was greeted with something light on her cheeks. Snow? There was snow? She narrowed her eyes, looking up. No, not snow. Was it night? No, the sun was partially blocked by the falling not-snow. She sighed deeply. She was too drunk for this.

Stumbling past the small building, she groped a hand along for something to grab onto. A sturdy mountain greeted her and she gratefully held on, turning behind her and gracefully expelling her last meal. She turned back around and look forward blearily, wondering where she was, but feeling a little bit better. Her tired eyes carefully watched each step she took, almost as though she was worried she was leading herself to slaughter. She could hardly see where she was going, let alone stop and figure out a way to get help. She ended up blindly stumbling some more, time passing on and on and on as she got more and more sober. After repeat incidents, similar to what happened outside the small building, she was feeling much much better. She could almost open her eyes all the way up, her body wasn't hunched over like she had a limp, and she could start piecing things together, to remind her how she ended out way in the middle of nowhere.

After a little more deducing, she realized she was outside of Fallarbor, which she was still working on remembering how and why she had gone there. She was about to start thinking about her pokemon when she heard a scream coming from above her. Panicked, she looked up expecting an air attack from a rebel and she floundered around for her gun. With no luck at grabbing her gun, and realizing that she wasn't about to get bombed on, she closed her eyes, counting to ten as she calmed down. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, deciding to go off looking where she'd heard the scream, the ranger part in her thinking it as a citizen in trouble and someone she could save, even in her half-hangover stupor. She clambered toward the singular voice, though she could faintly hear the grunts of something else, though she couldn't discern what it was. With a loud grunt, she pulled herself up and her eyes widened at the sight below her.

A blond man lay against a beaten and bloody Flygon. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the scene. Blood everywhere, she could almost taste the pain that she assumed the two of them were feeling. She hesitated, watching them cautiously. Only in that moment did she become aware of what she was wearing, a skimpy blue skirt and a matching bikini top. Although Brit was used to wearing small outfits, somehow this felt out of place. It was probably the little spot between drunk and sober that she sometimes greeted; the part of her that questioned her every being, the part of her that cuddled down with Nova on Sundays and talked about life, instead of just bouncing around all the time. Her gun was strapped up high on her left thigh, brushing against the inside of the soft skirt. She stared at the blonde, slowly rolling her shoulders to bring up the confidence she knew was hiding behind her hangover, cowering for dear life at what experiences this man - boy? - had probably been through. She took a step closer, noticing her feet were bare and littered with cuts from the rocks on her treacherous climb up, and stood steady. She pulled her hair back from her face, letting it fall over her shoulders as she tried to steel her face, but failed at the sight of all the blood. She cycled for the right question. "Do you need help?"

[/color][/size]

[ROGERSON CUMMINGS]

Fui instituted generativity in Rogerson, encouraging a rare, concerned part of the blonde to spread his little love upon the bloody beast. Within minutes of finding his Pokemon nearly taken by death’s hand, Rogerson ceased his story-telling. Instead, he transgressed his limits of cruelty to delve into a fatherly mode of comfort. He genuinely wished to ease Fui’s pain in any way possible, selflessly forgetting his own pain in a savage effort to save his dragon. With considerable, concentrated effort, he stripped himself of his shirt, wincing as the rough cloth brushed against a bruised side. The ashes drifting from the sky dripped into the blood on his breast, the calm air chilling his exposed chest but Rogerson couldn’t give an ounce of his attention to anything other than Fui. He wrapped the dry part of the shirt around the dragon’s wing. Placing exhausted hands on the beast’s side, he rubbed Fui’s scales like a mother rocks a baby, slow, gently, soothingly. A sweet, deep lullaby bubbled from Rogerson’s throat, lulling Fui to sleep. Minutes, hours, days, weeks may have passed during this process, and Rogerson would fail to notice. Despite his cruelties, he saw Fui as his responsibility, and swore to protect him on his life. A genuine, half smile played across his face as he tuned himself to Fui’s slow, steady breathing.

However, the slow thud of approaching footsteps swept away his smile. Instantly, the blonde straightened up, affecting a moan from his bruised body as he fortified himself for any approacher; whether it was the enemy or a friend, Rogerson prepared himself for a fight. He knew he tottered on the devil’s line, he knew any violence would exact death but in all things important he vowed to protect Fui till the very end. The bloody eyelid of his beaten eye wrinkled in apprehension, the stare of his other eye hard. An unforgiving, savage scowl molded his face into its usually angry, ready countenance. Inhaling deeply in anticipation caused his rippled chest muscles to tighten, ready to pounce until he noticed – a lady stood before him. Not just that, his savoir boasted a sexy appeal. Lustrous, long red hair flowed from her beautiful face, with an audacious outfit to boost. Rogerson held his prepared position, scrutinizing the lady a little too hard. He questioned how a fragile, beautiful woman like her found him, or whether she attacked him. From the onset, he wished to know everything about her, especially her purpose in asking that seemingly innocuous question: he eyed the gun strapped to her thigh.

Out of all the propositions that Rogerson made at that moment, incredulity caught him the most. If she truly wished to aid him, in a land so far away, she must be a ranger. Rogerson held mixed feelings about these adventurous activists. On one hand, he genuinely appreciated the brave effort rangers made to not only help people but to also help the environment; in this aspect, Rogerson respected rangers and wished nothing but success for these people. On the other hand, Rogerson hated most humans in general. To add to the dubiety, the women before him was…to his mind, simply too sexy to be a ranger. The rangers he met with in his research were both scarred and, unfortunately, men. They toured the world with rough hands and cheeky tongues, putting nature first over manners and good hygiene. This fine lady obviously failed to fit his schema, but at the same time, he discarded the idea of her attacking him. She seemed too…lovely for that.

After a mere moment of his contemplation, Rogerson’s expression softened. He relaxed his chest and felt a certain sorrow for the lady. She was drunk. Rogerson drank too much. As he regarded her half-drunken temper, he felt the throbbing pain that he assumed consumed her head, senses, whole body. During such high times, he failed to react like a reasonable human being in any aspect. For this woman to bravely assert her way to him even when recovering from what he assumed to be a mad hangover, he lauded her. Forget his bruises, scars, the blood rolling down his back – the psychological pain involved in hangovers (not even considering the cause of the overdrinking), he was sure, far outweighed any pain. His appreciation for the beautiful lass grew as he took in her bare feet. Despite the searing pain setting fire to his beaten body, he instantly emphasized with climbing up rocky, sharp mountains with no shoes. Friend or foe, this was a hell of a woman. “Help? Me?...nah, baby, it seems you’re worse off than I!” Rogerson chuckled. Chivalrously, he began unraveling the bright, warm bandages attached to his arm. This woman needed these, far more than he ever did, even now. “Come here, and give me your feet…it appears that you’ve been through a lot.” [/color]

[BRITNEY TIMBERS]

Even standing still was a difficulty. Her mind was still back at the base of the mountain, trying to piece together exactly what had happened, like she did every night. What she couldn't understand was why she had been dancing in some sleazy bar deep in Fallarbor. That wasn't her job, that wasn't her place, why was she there? Why had she been exposing herself to all the men that were curled up in their seats, nursing their beers, and watching a free show? She knew she was provocative but, in her state, she could only feel embarrassment. Part of her brain tried to get her to revert back to her 'fun' self, to the self that bounced around and threw her breasts on top of anything that moved. But another part, one that she ignored frequently, told her to be a lady. Told her to act professional and do her job. Not because she was going to get rewarded, but because it was the right thing to do.

She focused in on the man lying there and she blinked slowly, watching for is reaction. An ugly cut on his hip seemed too deep to keep a smile on anyone's face and his right eye was squeezed shut, from a cut just above it. When she looked at his other eye, all she could see was gold. Pure, manic, gold. She stared for a moment, lost in the gaze until she felt her head tilting to the side and her body adjusted to keep up with the slow but steady movement her body was making. She looked down, as if she were possessed by an alien and had never seen her body before. Her hands slowly rose in front of her face and she looked up at the man, barely registering that he was speaking. By the time she could unclog her ears and get a clear line of vision, he'd finished talking and had paused, that natural pause that everyone put at the end of a sentence when they want someone else to interject.

She stared at him and then nervously pulled her hair from around her neck, fumbling with the loose strands nervously as she prepared to ask him to repeat himself. But then she heard a ringing in her ears and she closed her eyes to focus on the sound that was echoing around inside of them. Her eyes jerked open and she looked at him, abashed. "I couldn't have been through anything worse than you have.." She mused, twirling at her hair as she took a shaky step forward, her body a little bit unbalanced, probably the little bit of alcohol still left in her stomach, sloshing around and making her body sway on the spot. "But my feet do hurt..." She finished, looking between him and his injured pokemon. It was only then that it occurred to her that he could have done this to himself. And the only reason she'd been reminded was because of the crazed look she'd spotted in his eyes.

It had been brief, gone just as quickly as it'd arrived, but she saw it. She hesitated and tried to weigh the pros and cons in her head. She had a gun if something happened. He was much bigger and probably much more powerful than her. She had a gun. She had a gun. She really couldn't think of anything else, her head pounding behind her eyes as she struggled to rub them. Alright, she could just shoot him if anything happened. She stepped forward, not noticing when she stepped in the blood near his body and his Flygon. Her concern went out to the animal when she saw that the worst of his injury was probably all wrapped up in the shirt that this man had just taken off. She frowned slightly and then stepped gently between his outstretched legs, folding herself into a sitting position between his knees. She looked up at him, brushing away her hair from her eyes and looking up at him.

She'd never considered herself to have a 'mother's intuition' before, but looking up at him and seeing his wounded eye made her rethink becoming a mother one day. In a flash, in the back of her mind, she saw exactly what she had to do to fix the wound and get his eye back open, probably from the numerous times her older brother had busted something open and his patient mother tended to his wounds. Brit would always sit by and watch her mother, proud that her mother didn't faint at all the blood, like all the other kids at school. And curious to where her mother had learned to fix all the wounds her children faced, but never having the guts to actually ask her. Brit stared up at his face, pulling her knees to her breasts. "You know, even with that eye, you're still very handsome." She commented with a lazy smile. One of her hands reached up slowly and she ran a fingertip gently over his swollen eyelid, down his jaw and resting her hand back on her knee. "You probably need those bandages more than I do. Are you sure you don't want any help?" Her eyes flickered down to the gash in his side and then back up, focusing on that one golden eye.

[/color][/size]

[ROGERSON CUMMINGS]

Human touch. Contact comfort. Gentle sense. When her fair, soft hand traced his face like a feather, he resisted careening to her with all his might. He hadn’t been touched in so long; in that hazy moment, he vaguely imaged how pleasant it would be to live in a world where he received that caring contact on a daily basis. From childhood, he adhered to a fortified fear against human touch. Touch, distributed in the form of vehement beatings from his father, quickly became a punishment. This mistrust shadowed him as he crossed from city to city, an ugly scar barring him off from other people. Now, in such close proximity to the beautiful Brit, his agitations were tested. He sat atop his deathbed with an intoxicating, intoxicated woman; fine in all her features, he thought her, a lovely woman lost in the rough of the mountains. How her touch could harm him, however, he easily surmised; an obstinate part of him refused to break down all his walls in paranoid suspicion. He admired her greatly, for beauty and bravery, but insisted on keeping his cool, hard gaze. Sanguine hope flickered in his golden eye for a mere millisecond before he returned to his usual intensity as she saddled up closely to him. “No, my dear, it is you who needs these more than I,” he unconsciously murmured, still musing around in his mind.

He seized a foot and drew it into his lap roughly. Here he worked steady: beginning from delicate toes, he worked towards wrapping the base of her foot. Half-dead, he exerted considerable concentration and gentleness in applying the cool bandages. The work proved soothing to him, relaxing him, passing time, moving forward. He took care not to wrap the bandages too tightly, or accidentally drip those lifesavers in his hip’s blood. Despite all his terrible mannerisms and paranoia, a chivalrous, considerate side of him served to provide Brit with a good job. Regarding the scratches and bruises her foot bore reminded him how hard this woman worked to be here before him now; she deserved the best of him, he subconsciously decided. Within minutes, he approached the ankle of her foot, signaling his end, but he wasn’t finished yet; excitement pushed him further as he finally saw the beautiful woman in her entirety. He met her eyes, exploring worlds of nebulous hazel before long fingers strayed from their target, spidering up her leg, toward her thigh. He sought to return the same comfort she so kindly blessed on him minutes ago. He leaned forward, concentrated on that perfect, creamy leg, before reaching the material prize: with a swift motion, he slipped her gun out of its holster.

“Ah…you are quite the lovely lady yourself,” he gruffly stated in admiration, both at her and the weapon. With demented curiosity, he twirled the gun in his noninjured arm, eliciting a smirk from his deleterious fantasies. Its cool, heavy metal underneath his fingers excited him, returning him to a dangerous, adventurous time. Despite his injuries, he became quickly zealous over this new toy, forgetting why he’d reached for it in the first place. He may have done so out of pure curiosity: devoted to research, a heavy desire to quench his theory over her gun could easily have precipitated his thievery. Perhaps, however, he affected this change to protect himself; a paranoid voice in the recesses of his mind always reminded him of the danger this beautiful young woman held with such a lethal weapon. Or even, maybe, he’d reached such savagery because he himself couldn’t bear to see where his own touch would lead him. Or, Rogerson, the stupid boy he was, wanted to impress her. That brilliant mind and all its theories were already history as Rogerson aimed the refined weapon out towards the mountains, muscles tensed as nostalgia gripped him.

“You know,” he drawled, fingers brushing over the trigger as he aimed at their imaginary enemy, “we could die here, at this instant, and who would know…but us?” he reverted his attention back to Brit, offering her his naughty, crooked half-smile. Her drunken stupor. His mangled body. The beaten Flygon. Macabre ideas sloshed around in Rogerson’s mind, bubbling up as intense fantasies as he smiled to himself, mocking, constantly, the idea of death itself. No, he could not die yet: now, he had not one but two to protect, to help, to guard with his life. Fui continued to sleep soundly next to the boy, so Rogerson focused on Brit, lovely as she was, excited as he may be to have met someone like her. Sitting so close, he took in those lustrous locks, her fair skin, her definite beauty, even with the effects of alcohol. Something burned within him upon being so close, sharing a moment so dangerous. Gladly, he’d repeat whatever terrible misfortune brought him into this situation in the first place, if it met meeting her again. He had too much fun mocking her, but at that moment he became genuinely consumed with a sincere desire to know her, in reactions and as a soul. He lowered the gun to his side and continued to smile at her, having completely forgotten to bandage the other foot.[/color]

[BRITNEY TIMBERS]

Brit's unsteady eyes widened when he pulled her foot into his lap. She watched, with haunting fascination as the bandage went around her leg, slower and slower until it seemed like he was moving without really moving. Her hands shook on either side of her waist as she watched him, mesmerized. Maybe it was the gentleness of his hands. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn't had a pair of hands touching her this smoothly since before she could remember. Countless men who meant nothing, only looking for a naughty tease. Few women, who couldn't really understand just what Britney Timbers really needed. Nova crossed her mind and she almost began an argument inside her head before becoming entranced with his hands again. She watched as he carefully wrapped the bandages, avoiding brushing against his own wound and she felt a surge of guilt as she realized she was sitting here, letting him take care of her feet, when he was covered in his own blood and bruises, urgent wounds that needed to be taken care of. But another part of her, the part that was still drunk, lavished in his touch. She couldn't get her mind off of his hands.

She felt herself squirming around, thighs brushing together and her hands shifting restlessly. Her eyes had gone glossy and her neck was arched to the side, almost begging to be touched. Then his hands were off her foot and she was left without the warmth, except in the small area where her heel remained on his lap. A curious part of her wanted to scoot closer, slide her other foot on his lap at the same time to see what he'd do. But every thought she had ever thought left her mind when he looked up at her. she could see a definite twist in his eyes and she struggled to contain her lust. Her hips pressed forward and her skirt fell back against her waist, exposing her sensitive inner thighs to the cool air and making her shiver involuntarily. She had closed her eyes in the anticipation of his touch as she felt his hand sliding up her leg. Goosebumps went down her calves and she bit her lip to keep from gasping in anticipation as he got closer and closer and closer.

And, before she knew it, the moment was over. She felt a definite jerk of her hips and saw him lifting her gun from the holster. She went rigid inside. Her jaw set and her teeth ground together as she watched him, her warm gaze now much more steely. She couldn't help it; she felt betrayed. Here she was, practically panting like a dog in heat in front of him, almost in his lap and he grabs her gun. She resisted the urge to lump him in with every other man she'd ever encountered and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, to humor him. She watched him quietly, mostly because a mass confusion of thoughts had descended over her already cloudy brain. She listened to his proposal and leaned back, pulling her legs back to her, not noticing her other un-bandaged foot. She felt a smirk forming on her lips before she had even hatched her plan. Her eyes sank more to the rich gold that his own possessed and she could feel confidence surging through her. Either the alcohol was wearing off or she had drank much much much much more than she had first estimated.

She put her knees down on the ground between his legs and slowly leaned forward, her hair slipping over her shoulder and sliding across his bare chest, one hand braced on his sleeping Flygon and the other sliding down his uninjured hip, down, down, to stroke at the bones in his waist. "No one would know. No one but us." She kept leaning in, her hair brushing against his chest and she swore she could almost feel his heart beat, even as she slid her breasts against his neck and leaned in. "It would be our little secret, just you and I, laying dead here, in a pool of blood, made by our own lifeless bodies." Brit had no idea where this was coming from. But words were coming out of her faster than she knew what she was saying. All she could feel was the heat between their bodies, eyes focused on his, unblinking. Her hand traveled across his waist and, in one swift motion, she had swiped the gun back from him. She leaned back, her back hitting the ground with a solid thwump and she aimed straight in the air, knees splayed out, giving Rogerson a generous view up her skirt. In a smooth motion, she aimed the gun straight into the air over her head and squeezed the trigger.

The loud gunshot echoed on the top of the mountain, and Brit lavished in it, smiling at the pleasure that simple sound brought her, ringing in the back of her ears. She slowly pulled herself back up into a sitting position and grinned cheekily, sliding the gun into its holster again. "If you couldn't tell, it only fires blanks." Oh, she felt so sure of herself. Her smug smile was that of a cat, having discovered a new plaything in Rogerson, even as he bled to death in front of her eyes. But she could sense, if he had enough energy to tease her, he had enough energy to be teased. She smirked and pulled her hair over shoulder, brushing it with her fingers as she looked over at him curiously, wondering what this possibly psychotic man was going to do, especially now that he knew her gun didn't have real bullets. Well shit, she hadn't thought that part through enough.

[/color][/size]

[ROGERSON CUMMINGS]

A sea of satisfaction swelled over him, flooding his everything with her everything. Every one of her movements excited him more than anything he’d ever had the fortune to experience in his life. He memorized every fluid movement, lost in a hazy world where her all his pains disappeared, and all which remained where her audacious movements, his wet responses and their growing tension. He swallowed it all up, wincing when she spread herself over his hip, breathing faster as he felt the splay of shiny crimson hair over his chest, readying himself evermore for the next movement. When she pushed herself over him, he desired to seize that soft back and draw her even closer to him but she met his ravenous appetite when she leaned back and he caught a fresh glimpse, delighting in the sight. The gunfire, his delirious ticking point, affected an excited euphoria to wash over him. She smiled at her own shot, and he smiled too; a beautiful woman familiar with the beauty of gunfire, and Rogerson became convinced she was just his type, if he had one. An odd, fantastic pride bubbled over him when she placed her hand over Fui and he found her beyond perfect.

“Our little secret? Come here, I’ll tell you,” he growled, clutching the gun out of her hand and hurling it feet away in a random direction, completely focused on his prize as he stared her down. He cupped her chin with unchecked masculine strength and brought her face to his, eyeing her, a fierce predator admiring soft prey. The narcotic jubilation which previously deluged him now transgressed into a lustful, passionate fire and he aimed to aggrandize the flames of his want. Slowly, at first, he leaned in, kissing her gently, growing ever more violent with his embrace. He found the strength in him to spread his good arm across her back, sliding his fingers underneath the bikini knot, drawing her further in, anxious for more of her touch. He breathed in deeply, hungry for anything, but letting go of the kiss to eye her deeply, golden eyes scrutinizing her perfect hazel in attempts to, almost, figure her out as if he could with just a stare. His pale hand now approached the base of her neck, sliding gently up until it rested gently along her bonny head, beautiful strands of bold red pouring through his fingers. He rested his warm, cool forehead against hers. His own blonde, mattered hair shifted over his face and he reached up undisturbed to push the mess out of his face, smirking at his embarrassment. His hand returned to rest upon her pretty sure, and he sat there regarding her, a beautiful piece.

“I may have been able to tell, but the way you handled it…you certainly got me wrong,” he joked, in late reply to her comment regarding the validity of her bullets. A thought crossed his mind as he continued to swim in her gorgeous hazel eyes before he took his hand off her. With great effort, he rose fully to his feet, affecting a low moan from his beaten body. To his enjoyable surprise, he could still stand, and in his mind, standing provided the efficacy for lots of human activities. Despite the protests of his surging wounds, he gave a wide stretch, ignoring the pain which consumed the tested muscles. He smiled at Brit before limping over to retrieve her gun, like a gentleman. He limped back over, wincing over pain which would have brought down any ordinary person, but oh not Rogerson, a boy too stubborn to fall. Gun in hand, he sat down again right next to Brit, brushing up incredibly close to her once more. He placed an arm across her shoulders comfortably before summoning strength in the ill arm to grab one of her hands and place it across the trigger with him, and then he aimed towards the great unknown, pressing her finger over the trigger and firing another raucous shot. “You deserve a lot better than all those men, my dear,” he began, “so shoot them. Just like that.”

A slight tone of jealously coated his deep voice. Extremely analytical, it took Rogerson little time to piece together what Brit did. Even in his dying state, he recognized the usual ranger and although he deemed her quite the woman to be a ranger, he also found her…well, quite the woman. Well endowed, absolutely feisty, passionately irresistible, he understood what her other job may have consisted of. With her drunken temper, he knew more and more what it was. Especially with her sexy-wear, there was no denying, to him at least, what she truthfully did. He found no contempt in this job, yet he found himself prideful to be with her now, jealous for some immature reason of all the other men she’d ever entertained. A certain part of him now also wished her safe, safe from all the harms most hideous men carried in with their hungry temperaments and desperate drives. Many a times, Rogerson had been one of these crazy men, not afraid to act wild, to get wild, to spread wildness all across loud, happy bars. Of course, Rogerson wasn’t one to talk, yet this time it was different. He was determined to keep his shiny, new interest safe.[/size]

[BRITNEY TIMBERS]

When the gun clattered away from the two, Brit was disgusted to say that she could almost feel herself purring against him, something that she only saved for Nova and other delectable women in her life. But she was bending against him, her strong, homosexual will was bending toward him. No part of her head worried about her now discarded gun, which she could hardly do any damage with anyway. Common sense told her to jerk away when he grabbed her chin but she didn't. She only leaned in closer, her lips slowly opening as she stared up into his eye. She wet her lower lip with her tongue and excitement rose inside of her, causing her legs to press together and lean into him with his kiss. It was much rougher than she remembered, probably because she hadn't kissed someone with such passion since she was lasted curled in bed with Nova. Thinking about Nova again sent a pang through her and she hesitated slightly against him before folding into his embrace. If her best friend, whom she'd pledged her life to, could go out and find a boyfriend and break their bond, so could she. Brit's slow-coming sobriety made her delight in the delicious infidelity.

Energy was starting to make her bloodstream bounce around and she stared up at him, daring sexual gaze meeting his. She stared into his eyes as his hand slid up her neck and her hair fanned out across his palm, between his fingers. She looked up at his hair and smiled widely, moving a hand up to gently pet it, fingers tugging at the ends of his hair and twirling it around her pointer finger. She watched as he stood up, worry crossing her face when he groaned and she was able to remember the wounds covering her body, making her want to shout for help, but not doing so. Something about the way he stepped away, the way his shoulders moved back and forth, and the fact that he was fetching her gun for her, even though he was in much worse physical state than she was. When he sat back down, she scoot against his body, welcoming the sudden warmth again and she felt lust shoot through her as he guided her hand to the trigger and she stared off the mountain, closing one eye. The sound went off and she smiled widely, just knowing that the sound had drawn the attention of somebody, without actually hurting anyone.

Brit mused quietly to herself. That was probably the underlying reason why she didn't want a real gun. Why she hadn't applied for a real gun. She wanted all the attention without all the real responsibility. She drew a sharp breath in and looked down at her bandaged foot, giving a cock-eyed smile when she realized he hadn't bandaged the other one. She prepared to ask him about it when he said something that made her freeze. She deserved better than those men. She could feel something in her chest twist and she winced visibly as she calculated what he meant by those words. She turned to him slowly and watched his eyes, wondering what she would see here this time. And now, she spotted recognition. He knew what she was. The jig was up. The few moments she'd spent with him, being treated like a real lady were up. Precious time that she hadn't experienced since taking her job at the bar with Nova, time that was now gone and up, just like it always was when she bounced in to meet new people, with a flimsy bikini top to support her breasts.

She looked over at him and then stretched her legs out, bending over to pull at her toes, thinking on how to reply. She knew he knew, so she didn't feel like she actually had to say anything out loud. But she also felt obligated to defend her job. Sure, it wasn't the "nicest" job out there, but it paid the bills while she waited to get a promotion in the Rangers. It also didn't help that her boss had it out for her. Sure, Nova had tried to assure Brit that Sirius was just letting her get more experience, but Brit knew better. Jealous boyfriend couldn't stand the closeness between his girlfriend and her girlfriend. She growled slightly and then turned to stare at Rogerson, passion in her eyes. "That dancing is the only thing keeping me sane. That drinking is the only thing keeping a smile on my face. If I get rid of those, I'm left with a best friend who I'm in love with, a boss who's fucking my best friend, and an empty bed to go home to." She huffed deeply, almost snorting air out her nose. "I gotta keep a smile on my face and I gotta keep dancing." She said, slowly standing up and aiming her gun at the wide open. She then spun around on the spot, putting her hands on her hips. "But now we gotta get you to a hospital or my apartment, which ever's closer. And which ever you're more interested in." She grinned with a wink, twirling her skirt around her gun holster as she, once again, strapped it back into place.

[/color][/size]

[ROGERSON CUMMINGS]

Understanding swelled over Rogerson upon hearing Brit’s confession. Although he had not the slightest clue the history behind these secret alliances and broken relationships, he delighted in knowing something more about Brit. A savage curiosity grew thicker as he wondered more and more about not only her but the people surrounding her in life. He surmised at her past prior to, but now the flamboyant veil disguising her dancing pulled away and Rogerson figured it out. Knowing the extent of her pain bore an odd familiarity Rogerson understood; this was a woman hurt by people she trusted, and Rogerson related to nothing more than he the antipathy of neglect. He pondered how deeply her best friend drove a stake in her, how badly she wished to annihilate her boss. He wished to not only mitigate her betrayal but destroy the betrayers; sinister schemes began firing in his paranoid mind over their demise. His focused eyes softened during her quick confession as he saw the desperation in her situation. Rogerson believed, ostensibly, Brit did what she did as a way out. He respected any job a person exerted passion in, even Brit’s job. However, Rogerson saw the problem of her job in her words, and he began worrying. “Drink and dance because you want to…never because they make you,” Rogerson coolly replied, expression hard.

The blonde heard her comment, watched her place her hands on her hips and smiled drunkenly, vision vacillating. His wounds caught up with him, vision blurring, body wavering. He desperately realized the urge to move and recover. Rogerson, glancing over at Fui, placed a cold hand on the sleeping beast, thanking him once more for staying with him another day. He owed his lifelong partner major appreciation for all of his screw ups, including the delirious debauchery he precipitated today in these mountains. Rogerson unwrapped the soaked shirt, gently unraveling the moist material as to not stir his sweet dreams; he pulled the signature red and white ball from his pants, tapped on it to enlarge it and recalled the beast. An impetuous ray of red energy zapped Fui away into another world, and he swiped this mysterious galaxy once more into his bottoms. Next came the challenge: standing. With great, concentrated effort, Rogerson managed to somehow struggle off his feet. His consciousness began bending in and out, and he forced himself to stay afloat in life’s rapidly churning whirlpool. He limped over to Brit, bloody shirt wavering in the wind with a proud expression plastered across his stubborn face.

“I’ve never trusted a hospital. I’d rather occupy your bed, if I won’t be a burden,” he replied. A naughty glint shone in his eye as he imagined the possibilities. Truthfully, he opted out of every hospital experience. Paranoia and a strong bio chemistry backing kicked him towards the dangerous land of self medication. However, although he regarded hospitals with hate, he’d enjoy the company of nurses and doctors. Most of his life, he’d been a lonely nomad. The last person to occupy an apartment or house with him abandoned him in his youth. From there on loneliness fostered his cruelty, growing quite discontent with the idea of living alone forever. Of course, he became comfortable with the lifestyle. He hated most people, and thus, had no one around to constantly criticize, no one to annoy him. However, this also meant he had no one to talk to, no one to express feelings for. The idea of living with Brit, even for a little while, sent excitement surging through his core. He realized, even in his dying state, this marked the beginning of something exciting, something new; his adventurous side delighted in the possibilities and began conjuring life with the beautiful Brit. Of course, he stopped himself short of the finest possibilities, pessimism protecting him from disappointments. Lovely fantasies of a warm home life bled behind a curtain of cold reality.

After a moment of musing into fantasies, reality again hit Rogerson’s sense of balance. The world spun on its axis and the lonely sky finally rushed into the barren ground as colors and shapes blurred into the same, hopeless entity; Rogerson began to fall over, unable to physically grasp the concepts of up and down. He latched himself onto Brit from behind, hugging her back tightly to regain his balance. The world slowed in its life-shattering pandemonium and he breathed down the base of her neck for a moment, catching his breath, losing life. He released his tight grasp and concealed the woozy expression behind those focused golden eyes. “My apologies, baby. I must be a little too excited,” he managed to smoothly remark, throwing her an apologetic, handsome gaze. Blood dripped, heartrate slowed, dizziness tripled; if this was what dying felt like, Rogerson was dying. He attempted to shoot these ideas down as quickly as possible, assuring himself he’d been in worse situations before. Fortifying himself, he promised himself to cut off death’s intolerable grip one more time. His reasons this time resided in the lovely Brit herself; he refused to allow her see him die, after all she’d went through to rescue him. The least he could do as a proper gentleman would be to make it out alive with her.[/size]

[BRITNEY TIMBERS]

Britney watched him quietly, lips pursed as she ran her fingers across her thighs, welcoming the cool fingertips pressing down on her skin, bringing her closer and closer to reality. She had to think long and hard on what she wanted to say before she could actually say it. Nervous tics began to spring up and she started fiddling with her hair, pulling it over her shoulder and beginning to braid it quickly, not sure what to say. What was this trickery? She was Britney fucking Timbers, how had she let this handsome dying man get under her skin so much? Sure, the drunkeness probably had something to do with it. But she felt as if there were something else about him. Something else in those crazed eyes that she didn't dare look away from. That heavily damaged body that she wanted to smooth the blood off of. That hair that she wanted to slowly rinse out and brush until all the tangles were out. Her eyes widened in realization, but she kept back what she really wanted to say. "They don't make me. I choose to because of the decisions they've made." She shrugged. "It keeps me happy and it keeps me focused." She turned and look at him, eyes a bit sharper than she meant to. "Why, are you offering some sort of happiness for me that doesn't involve drink and dance?"

The words slipped out before she even had a chance to think about recalling them. Her head flooded with images of nights spent curled up with Rogerson at her side, his warm frame engulfing her. Her red hair splayed out on that deliciously deep scar. His eyes staring at her, seeing directly through her as they balance foreheads together and lean in for a goodnight kiss. She wet her lips with her tongue as she imagined his head leaned down on her neck and imagined what it felt to have such a seductive and teasing mouth pressed firmly against her clavicle.....Britney tore herself from the imagination, much to her chest chagrin which was, unknown to her, showing just how excited she was about being with him. With a faint blush, she tried to turn away and hide her chest from view, not sure what he would say. She watched as he recalled his dragon and gave a small nod in his direction, watching as he stood up. He was easily a few inches taller than her, no mean feat, and he was even more muscular than she could remember. She smiled brightly when he agreed to come to her house.

"Oh, then I'll be sure to warm the bed for you, and then we can warm it together." She let slip a giggle and then was preparing to turn around to go when he suddenly latched onto her back. Her legs instinctively spread to give her more balance with the extra weight. She hadn't gotten perfect on the physical part of her ranger exam for nothing. Her thighs weren't just curves in all the right places. When flexed, she easily could hold Rogerson against her back, and then some. Her upper body strength wasn't lacking either. She shifted him onto her back, grinning widely. "Don't even worry 'bout it. I've had to carry bigger things before." She boasted, pulling him directly onto her back, trying her best to not bother any of the wounds he had on him. She could feel affection pouring out of every part of her body, sinking into the dying man on her back, pulling him closer and holding him on her back. She checked behind them to make sure nothing had been left and then began the treacherous journey down the mountain. The bandaging on her foot definitely helped her move along and she was much more careful about using the unbandaged foot to move. She pulled Rogerson further up her back with a heavy huff and then kept moving.

A couple of times, she slid and re-caught her balance, moving much slower. Sweat beaded on her brow and she ignored it, letting the pain seep into her eyes and blink it away quickly. Her arms wrapped around his legs to keep him against her, knowing that he was probably barely even conscience at this point. Her other foot, no matter how much as she tried to avoid putting pressure on it, became even more ripped up and bruised as she made her way down the mountain, as quickly as she dared. She looked over her shoulder at his face a few times. Even as she hesitated and prepared herself to stop right then and there and drop down dead, she would look back and see a glint in his eye and turn back around, surging forward. She stayed quiet the whole journey, eyes focused directly on the road ahead of them, trying to get him off the mountain as soon as possible. He might have said something and he might not have; she had no idea. Brit finally slid down the last foot of the mountain and pressed her feet firmly on the ground, shifting him on her back.

She looked around, not sure where to go or what to do at this point. Her pokemon were virtually useless: three fairly small ones who couldn't pick her or Rogerson up. Harrison, the love of her life, could probably cheer Rogerson up if she released him. She wasn't sure if the injured blonde really needed cheering up or if he was just trying to stay alive. She assumed it was the latter, if the marks on his body were anything to go by. She looked around for a way to get out of the city and get to her own apartment in an efficient manner. When she saw the car, she knew she was a goner. Looking around quickly, heaving Rogerson over to the car, she slung herself forward, jamming her gun through the window. Desperation filled her as she quickly unlocked the door, pulling the back door open and laying Rogerson down on the backseat, trying to be as gentle as possible. She carefully tucked his feet in behind him and, heart racing, went to the driver's door, hopping in. Before she knew what she was doing, she was racing off down the road, looking over her shoulder at Rogerson every now and then as she sped along, hoping he wouldn't die. She wouldn't let him, he was much too interesting to die here. She felt horrible for stealing the car, but it was for ranger duties, right? She had to save an innocent civilian and she could easily defend her case if it called for it. They were almost to her apartment (in some miraculous way) when she finally spoke up. "I guess I should apologize for making you an accomplice to a crime....But I gotta save you." She grinned back at him, proud that she'd actually done something for once, instead of just fucking everything up, like she was good at.

[/color][/size]

[ROGERSON CUMMINGS]

Across a treacherous astral plane, away from a marvelous new reality, near a twisted black void, Rogerson battled. The worst opponents defeat people by destroying something sacred, cranking a beloved idea into a mutilated omen. This fight bore no difference. In his vision, crimson cloaked the sky and there they sat on the mountain top once more, the beautiful Britney curled against him, Mrs. Cummings standing erect the mountain’s edge. Mrs. Cummings rejoined the couple from his first dream of the day, yet something awfully amiss morphed the mother; no longer the jubilant, cheerful epitome of motherly love, Mrs. Cummings now resembled a dangerous stranger. A snarl distorted her beautiful features. Fury crossed her face. Sharp words. Hair frazzled. Rogerson’s eyes dilated at the sight of his mother toeing the very edge of the mountain. She cast him a tender gaze befitting a mother, the only gaze Rogerson ever wished to imagine of the mother he never knew. And then she fell. “No!” Rogerson screamed in his vision, immediately tearing away from Brit to save her; with valiant effort, he clutched his mother’s hand, promising to be the best son she would have ever wanted. Velocity set their hair a-flurry as gravity moved to annihilate them. Mrs. Cummings placed a soft hand on her son’s face. Horror incapacitated his being as her other hand, encased in his, moved to withdraw a knife from the folds of her dress. She smiled at him once more, face exhausted, eyes lifeless as she used his hand to plunge the knife into her stomach, twisting the weapon deep – Rogerson had no time to scream before the ground met them, and all faded to black.

The horrible nightmare shook him. However, the reality before him quickly rectified the horror. Here he laid, world apart, happy, warm. Brit lay curled next to him in a sweet-smelling bed, in a place Rogerson vaguely remembered. He drew her closer to him, inhaling the comforting scent of her hair. Nips at her neck turned into gentle kisses and he became fully lost in the new vision. Warm blankets enshrouded the lovely couple, faint piano music drifting in from a faraway place. All represented the tender fantasy Rogerson wished for, but the perceptive blond became aware of something faulty as the piano missed a note. It wasn’t until Rogerson blinked twice did he notice the silhouette at the edge of the bed. Terror gripped him once more, and he draw the sleeping Brit closer, inhaling in a sharp breath. This was different: he vowed to protect her, and he’d fulfill this promise at any cost. He held his breath as hours seemed to pass, the shadow slowly sulking closer and closer…Rogerson seemed paralyzed as the shadow finally approached his side. Summoning bravery, he finally released his breath, pouring down a curtain of red in his nightmare. The vivid color illuminated the shadow, and here Rogerson startled: the figure of his lost father glared back at him, foreboding, impetuous. Rogerson didn’t think: instinct moved him. Seconds passed by in a blurry, bloody haze which ultimately concluded with his father dead on the floor. Rogerson violently shuddered, the thick, metallic crimson smothered all over his hands –

And then he woke up, the smell of his parents’ blood heavy on his chest.

“Damn!” Rogerson moaned, after letting loose a final scream. He had jolted awake, revealing a pool of blood as he heaved his aching body upwards into a sitting position. Scenery blurred by outside and Brit drove behind a wheel, safe, thank Heavens, in one piece. But wait. How exactly did they get this far? Why was Brit behind a wheel? Why was his body so broken? Rogerson knew better at this point: he performed a stark reality check, shoving his index and middle finger on his right hand straight into the gash on his hip, twirling his fingers in there for good measure. Blood oozed out the irritated skin and he screamed again, withdrawing his fingers, inhaling deeply. Reality deluged him at that moment, flooding him with the impressionable memories of the day. He still failed to recall his memory of the accident itself, but became overwhelmed with the auspicious meetings with the beautiful ranger. He lavished in them, quickly recalling her kind words to him before his weak passing out. He naughtily smiled to himself as he faintly remembered her visible, seductive reaction, wetting his lip and bowing his head as if continuing the scene.

“I hear there’s a special kind of happiness, and I’d like to gladly provide it to you,” he replied, his deep voice groggy from sleep. He stretched once more, ignoring the pain, and crossed his arms over the head cushions of the driver’s and passenger’s seat. His wide chest dripped with blood, but he became enmeshed in the wondrous woman saving his life. His head rested gently on his arms as he leaned forward, leaning towards Britney so he could eye her more, appreciate her. Truthfully he thought her a passionate, beautiful creature, made perfect by even the hardships of her job and enemies. He vaguely remembered his prideful, inner turmoil as she picked him up and carried him down the mountain like the baby he was, but his stupid, pained dignity quickly gave way to raw, awestruck appreciation. She was more of a woman than he previously thought, and he relished in his newfound treasure. “No, I’ll offer you my deepest apologies, Miss,” he began, “for this, I’ll be in the greatest debt to you.” He meant every single word of this proposal. A life for a life. Rogerson would have this no other way – despite his craziness, he was a man of promises, a man of honor. “Your servant Rogerson Cummings, yours for life,” he deeply stated, bowing to her.

He had not the slightest idea where her apartment was, or what would happen to his old house and laboratory. Life progressed, faster than any of these material things may ever budge. He welcomed the changes, ready for a new life, ready for purpose. The only certainty Rogerson held at this point remained his will to serve Britney. “I’ll protect you, no matter what, no matter who stands in the way…” he murmured, half to himself, his cold gaze a million miles away. The frightful episode of both dreams hovered over him vindictively and he refused to stop to even qualify the dream’s purpose; now he vividly replayed the scenes in his head, holding Brit, protecting her, wishing he had done more. Regret filled him, fueling him to be someone better, someone stronger. In his dreams he proved to be a coward, hiding, holding his breath, waiting to be attacked instead of attacking. He was the victim, as he was in real life. He had used death as an excuse to pass out earlier, the weakest crime he committed in a long time. Although he tottered on reality and Hell’s flame, he allowed himself to submit and he hated himself for it. Disappointment was no longer an option. He had someone to protect, somewhere to go. With this mindset, he promised himself to be the strongest.

[BRITNEY TIMBERS]

Every time that she heard his screams, she winced. She was sure that she couldn't even imagine what kind of pain he was going through, what kind of nightmares he was experiencing. But she also felt nothing but sympathy for him. She wanted more than anything to just swerve off at the nearest hospital and take him in there to get him healed. But, from the way he reacted to her suggestion about a hospital, she knew he wouldn't want to go there. She had to get them back to her apartment and she had to fix up his wounds - fast. She chanced a glance back at him, concerned that that last scream would be his last. She looked back just in time to see him pushing his finger into his side and her face went into her "serious business" expression. Pain like that didn't just happen, something drastic had to have happened and she was, once again, thrust into speculation. What had happened? Had he done it to himself? Was there some huge battle that had left him nearly incapable of movement? Whatever had happened, she'd re-promised herself that she was going to fix it and experience this strange man for all that he was, not just one practically blinded by pain. It suddenly occurred to her that she knew nothing about him. His name, his age, his shoe size, his pokemon, what he did for a living. She was preparing to ask him and start getting serious about this newfound.....whatever this was, when he finally spoke up again.

She felt her face flush almost as red as her hair and she looked over at him, listening. When he leaned forward, she winced slightly at how close he was. Oh arceus, she could smell him... She glanced over his shoulder at the blood pooled on the backseat and she thanked Arceus that she'd stolen the car. Blood dripped on the armrest that separated her from leaping into the back seat and bending over and covering his face in kisses, to prevent him from talking and possibly making his wounds even worse. "You don't need to pledge your life to me..." The usually confident Brit was now fumbling for words, feeling more and more like a lady and not just like a stripper. She hadn't recieved such compliments and promises of eternal loyalty since...well, ever. "And quit with that bowing!" She said suddenly, swatting at his hand playfully. "You'll make your wound worse and then there'll be even more evidence all in the car." She giggled, winking back at him and then focusing in on the road. She smiled wider when he pledged to protect her and she tilted her head down shyly. "As great as I am, I'm also pretty good at defending myself." She grinned. "I've got my gun and everything!" The gun that was strapped in against her thigh, which had somehow rotated around and was brushing against her other thigh.

She hadn't noticed because she had been so focused on driving back to her apartment and worried that her passenger was going to bleed to death before she even had a chance to start tending to his wounds. With a firm jerk of her hand, and also the car into another lane, causing someone to honk their horn and swerve out of the way, she pulled the holster from around her thigh and dropped it into the passenger seat. She rolled down her window and pushed her skirt up, welcoming the cool breeze. With the sudden close contact after the long car ride of just rotating the cool air conditioner of the stale air in the car, she was now sweating and feeling hot, in more ways than one, especially with how close he was to her. She could feel his breath on the side of her neck and she exhaled a little harder than she meant to, re-focusing in on the road. Sometimes she couldn't stand the way her body reacted to things without her permission. She didn't think now was the appropriate time to be so physically attracted to anyone, let alone to someone who had the possibility to die before she could even reach her apartment. Her skirt fluttered up and about as she sat in the seat of the driver, focused on the road. She knew she had to drive. She knew she had to make sure she knew what she was doing. But the road was suddenly free and she was suddenly filled with risque thoughts that she probably should have tried to suppress.

But she couldn't help it. Since she'd met him, Britney couldn't hold back all those feelings. Especially being stuck in a car with no one to talk to for hours while he had, what she assume, were horrible dreams. Well, not dreams. Nightmares. Her senses were suddenly lit up and she was squirming around in her seat. Part of her wondered if he could see the signs of her restlessness. "I'm Britney, by the way. Britney Timbers." Her heart was starting to pump faster, knowing exactly what she was going to do before her mind knew what she was going to do. Still wiggling around, she balanced one hand on the wheel and reached over, taking his hand and gliding it up and down her bare thigh, giving a soft happy sigh. She welcomed the warmth of his hand gladly, happy to have the human contact that she'd more or less been craving. Just sitting here next to him was basically enough for her, enough for her to feel happy and content.

[/color][/size]

[ROGERSON CUMMINGS]

It transpired within seconds. One moment, Rogerson relaxed: hazy, neurotic attraction blossomed between the two and Rogerson drowned in satisfaction as his hand moved further up her thigh. He remembered tasting her lovely name upon his tongue, tying it along with his in pure admiration, pondering the synergy in the rest of their lives… Then the truck hit. The monstrous display of drunk driving charged towards the couple at over eighty miles per hour, and when the groggy Rogerson caught the shiny glimpse from the corner of his eye, he enacted an unconditional dying strength to seize Brit out of the driver’s seat and hurl her towards him in the back. Two thick, strong arms wrapped around her head and Rogerson hunched over her with the rest of his body as he shielded her, strong as stone in the very right corner of the car. The gargantuan metal mistake rammed into the stolen car the next second, tearing the left half of the car apart with an unbearable clamor; in a miracle of physics, the demolished car spun and swerved to a stop, all tires popped from the pressure. Rogerson violently trembled, still covering Brit, as he dared to glance up at the catastrophe. The drunk driver, very incapable of controlling the precarious situation, screamed as the truck skid off road and tumbled down a long, grassy slope, flipping multiple times. It ended with an exploded engine. Ashen pillars of smoke snaked towards the sky, permeating the area with the horrid odor of burnt metal and rotted flesh.

“Are you ok?” Rogerson calmly inquired. He proved successful at hiding the mass distress building up inside him, at ensuring Brit herself was safe and sound. His actions revealed different, however. He had not the slightest idea of his reasoning as he gently set Brit down on the seat, and opened the door of the barely standing vehicle. He seemed completely normal as he limped towards the disaster – another object imploded from the inside of the car, yet he continued – fully at peace as he placed a hand on the cold handle of the driver’s door. Thick smoke crowded Rogerson’s vision, yet the blond seemed completely focused on opening the door. He couldn’t open the door. He shook the handle once, twice, three times – insanity gripped him as he tried again, growing angrier and angrier with each shake – he put his whole body into it, eyes afire in effort and expression growing coincidently crazy – “Open this door right now!” he yelled hoarsely, thrusting his uninjured shoulder into the weakened window. The glass shattered, revealing the unconscious drunk driver, an unconscious middle aged man, accompanied by a knocked out woman in the passenger’s seat and a crying baby in the back. Rogerson wasted no time as he dragged their limp bodies out the car with what little strength he had, coughing and sputtering out smoke as he holstered bodies on his shoulder, laying them on soft grass a safe distance from the disaster.

“Jui,” he whispered, a bloody hand pulling another ball out of his pants. The grey, cold Pokeball emitted a red zap of energy which blurred into a giant, dark mountain of an Aggron. Jui, the epitome of strength, responded with a guttural roar heard from a mile away. The monstrous Aggron easily tripled his master in height, making no match in weight. Several rows of sharp, pristine teeth oozed with saliva at the sight of the oncoming feast. A bloodthirsty expression hid behind Jui’s solid, impenetrable mask of steel and Rogerson smiled at his toughest Pokemon. “All of this is yours now. Eat, leave no evidence, and then hide when people begin arriving.” The blond zoned out as he glared at the unconscious family, the baby still wailing away. “Protect those bastards. When all is done, seek me, as you always do,” he finished. The giant Pokemon analyzed its master a brief, intense moment before kneeling down and allowing Rogerson to pet his head in acquiescence. A respectful tone saturated Rogerson’s deep voice in regards to Jui, perhaps the most independent and dependable of all his party. Rogerson completely trusted the Pokemon, trusted his ability to find him out of intelligence alone, trusted the Pokemon to properly finish the job. This disaster was now in Jui’s grandeur hands.

And so Rogerson limped back up the hill. A thick blanket of fatigue cloaked his mind and he found himself unable to explain his inexplicable actions; he was sure that if the same situation arose when he was in a fit state, he wouldn’t have hesitated to drag the bodies out and beat them in consequence to their actions. Why a rare side of kindness and chivalry chose to guide him today, he had not the slightest idea. For the most part, he didn’t want to comprehend why. He saw her, the beautiful Britney Timbers, at the top of the hill and all other thought ceased. He felt he had redeemed himself from his previous cowardice and smiled at her. Numb as he was calm, he toyed with one of her soft hands, twirling their fingers together as he slowly led her away from the dastardly scene. “Come, Miss Timbers,” he softly stated, failing at piecing what to do next, simply content with the moment. He had not the slightest idea of where to go, or how to get there. It seemed to him they were stranded in the middle of nowhere, slowly leaving a site of mass destruction. Jui’s excited teeth began chomping away at the discarded metal, producing the sounds of car deconstruction plants as the sound faded. Rogerson saw a river in the distance, and grinned at the simple thought.[/color]

[BRITNEY TIMBERS]

Britney, lost in excitement, leaned her head back, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before flying open at the sound approaching her. Something didn't feel right. Before she knew what had happened, Rogerson's arms were wrapped around her head and the car was being jerked to the side, making her whip to the side, slamming against the car door that was to her right. She squeezed her eyes shut at the sudden pain and gave a tight smile. "I'm fine." She said, waving at him, trying to convince him that she was okay. He lay her gently on the seat and she welcomed the cool seat, resting her head against the head rest as she closed her eyes. It was almost like she was back in the club, stumbling around and not really remembering what she had been doing two minutes earlier. Her eyes fluttered open and closed again, stretching her legs out beneath her. She knew there was something wrong with her body, but she couldn't tell what it was. There was pain coming from somewhere. She opened her eyes, hoping to call out for Rogerson to come help her but she saw him skidding down the hill, towards the car that she assumed had hit them. If he hadn't wrapped his arms around her head, she probably would have slammed against the steering wheel and been dead on impact. She couldn't even imagine what kind of injuries Rogerson probably had, or rather, had made worse.

Even as the pain filtered through her senses, her worry started coming through much more than she expected to. She pressed her head against the window, welcoming the cool glass against her warm forehead. She watched the muscles in his back move and flex as he worked at the bottom of the hill. Her mind was a hazy fog so she wasn't quite sure what he was doing. And currently she was getting more and more tired as time passes. She gave a soft groan and tried to peel her back from the seat, looking down. She tried to wet her lips with her tongue and resisted the urge to vomit all over the floor of the stolen car. She saw red and immediately looked away, taking a long deep breath, which seemed to hurt more than help. Her worry extended out to Rogerson even as blood trickled out of the small wound just below her ribcage. She didn't dare look at it for more than ten seconds, but from the way it hurt, she knew there was something buried in there. She was having a hard time looking at it; she knew she wasn't going to be able to fix this wound on her own. Reason sluggishly caught up with her mind, informing her that a piece of the door that got hit had been embedded in her stomach and she was lucky that she hadn't smashed her entire head open like an egg.

Her hand hovered over the open wound and she considered trying to do it with her hand, without the help of Rogerson. She hesitated and looked out the window in time to see him letting out a huge Aggron and its subsequent roar, which she was sure echoed over the plains they'd just left and the abundance of rivers that they were about to encounter. She suddenly steeled herself. Rogerson had covered her up in the accident, bandaged her feet, gone to deal with the cause of the accident, and what was she doing? Cowering in their stolen car, not brave enough to jerk a piece of something out of her stomach. She bit down firmly on her lower lip and pressed her fingers against the wound, trying to get a feel for how big the object was. With a soft moan, she pressed her fingers in and gripped it around the flat surface. Thank Arceus it was flat or else she would have had to be much more forceful about getting it out. Or ask the brave Rogerson for help. Another bath of affection welled up inside of her and she felt warmth spreading all over her body, just the thought of Rogerson laid out on her couch, completely bandaged and feeling better. She allowed herself a long moment of simple fantasy, of Rogerson curled up on her couch in the living room with her puttering around, tending to his bandages and generally making him feel like he belonged there. She allowed herself to imagine helping him over to her small bedroom and folding herself into the bed with him, arms wrapped around his back and falling asleep with his hands running up and down her back...

Britney was startled at the sudden air as she pushed the door open and looked around frantically for Rogerson. He was making his way up the hill and it was now or never. She either had to deal with this herself and be the strong woman that he deserved to spend time with or she had to wait there for him like a pathetic damsel in distress. She struggled to her feet and jerked up on her gun holster, pulling it out from where it had lodged itself under the seat. She dropped it onto the ground, her gun clattering down as well. She turned away from him and reached into her side, pulling the flat item from her stomach. Luckily, it hadn't gone as deep as she had originally thought it had. She placed it carefully on the hood of the car and looked down at her stomach, wanting to frantically wipe away all trace of the wound. She didn't want to worry Rogerson unnecessarily. She tried to wipe the blood away and ended up smearing it all over her hands and her stomach. And then he was behind her. Twirling his fingers in with her's and she winced. Perhaps he wouldn't see the blood? She smiled to herself and nodded, yes, he wouldn't be worrying about her. After all, why would he look down at her stomach? No reason. "I'm your's." She said quietly, leaning up against him, looking around to see what she should do next.

She cycled through the next step, ready to think of their next idea that would get them both snug and safe in her apartment, licking their wounds and getting ready, what she hoped, for their next adventure. She felt only faintly disconcerted that she'd suddenly started looking at them as a "we" and not just her and Rogerson. Her heart leaped into her throat and she struggled to push it back down. "Harrison." Her voice cracked at the sudden speech. Who knew how long they had been walking down the same road, away from the wreckage that she hoped would never come back to haunt her. She fumbled at her belt, surprised to brush her hand against the gun holster that she'd somehow strapped back around her thigh. She pressed the first pokeball there and a flash of red revealed her Swoobat who immediately started screeching, looking worriedly at her wound. "Harry, I'm fine." She smiled widely, holding an arm up so he would perch there and she could give him a firm kiss on the nose. He gave another squeal and knocked his wings out behind him, clearly still agitated. "Would you please go up and look around for the nearest....anything?" She asked, smiling down at him, staring into his eyes. "And please return to me when you find something." She smiled and kissed his nose again and the Swoobat took off into the air, firing off high-pitched sounds from his nose, trying to locate other pokemon. Britney grinned over at Rogerson. "I got this." She told him sassily.

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[ROGERSON CUMMINGS]

He walked like a dead man. Faded from reality, Rogerson himself faded. He found his Britney safe from any deleterious influence (so he thought) and at that moment began physically and mentally easing out of reality. To ease his pain or to grant his overworked mind freedom from these traumatic incidents, Rogerson chose not to decide or acknowledge. He staggered slowly, continuing to intertwine her soft fingers around his giant hand like ribbon, not noticing the vivid, cold blood screaming out her pain in his own grasp. Cold stare a million miles away, he stopped seeing the endless road before him. Even when he turned to kiss Brit on the neck a few times, smiling contently, he failed to notice the explicit crimson splattered across her stomach. Besides the light thud of their feet against the cold pavement – his jagged limp and her captivating gait – he heard nothing. The dangerous, sudden episodes of explosions had long begun a decrescendo, the ominous sounds of Jui’s feasting fading into nothing more than the sounds of pins tapping paperclips. He grew numb: somewhere along the long trail, cops and an ambulance howled by with their buzzers and he had smiled; Jui had certainly gotten away by that point, and with the safety of his Aggron and Brit, he needed nothing. He remembered her sweet voice stating she was his, and that simple satisfaction saved him from pure insanity as he continued to trudge along.

His concrete wall broke down when he heard the worried reply of Harrison. All of a sudden, a broken soul drifted back into reality, connecting cords with the outside world. The screeching certainly scared him, and he made a move to grab Brit close to him again, as if expecting another traumatic explosion. Signs of post traumatic stress shrouded him like a storm cloud and he gasped, looking down. He felt it for the first time, the thick substance of blood on her stomach, noted the fresh metallic odor, screaming in comparison to his dried, caked blood. He looked into her eyes, stupid golden eyes finally perceiving her pain, and cursed himself. “When did this happen? Who did this to you!?” he asked hurriedly, breathing faster and faster. Her suffering affected him more than any event thus far, and an iron sea of guilt and worry crushed him. How could he have been so stupid, so blind? He could have sworn she was right next to him, this whole time! He started frantically looking around in hysteria, trying to find the culprit he’d so brutally annihilate for hurting her. Paranoia swept over him, and a furious snarl crossed his face as no person remained but him and her. “I’ll kill him when I find him,” he snarled under his breath, already planning a counterattack.

Worriedly, he turned his attention back to her, placing a beast hand across her waist gently. “How much does it hurt?” he whispered, rubbing his hand across in a slow, circuitous manner. He would sooth this pain; it would be the least he could do to rectify his failure. His reasoning snapped back to him with an acuity fueled by emergency and an idea formed. He noticed the nearby river and motioned to Brit as soon as she strongly – he found that seductive – set her Pokemon a command. “Follow me Miss Timbers,” he stated, trying to be as calm as possible. He squeezed her hand a little harder and ended up along the banks of the river, the cool water trickling down a never ending path. Translucent liquid revealed the shiny, vivid rocks underneath, free from human contamination. Rogerson evaluated its edibility quickly; years of environmental evaluation honed him, and he was glad for this little success in such a vital situation. “Drink, and wash it off,” he ordered, deep voice dark with seriousness. He planned to do the same, but he would never allow himself freedom from his own pains without ascertaining her pain disappeared. He kneeled by the river, watching her intently, promising to never fail her ever again.

“I didn’t have you though, and I’m damned for that,” he replied to her sassy statement. A deep sorrow filled his eyes, weighing down his heart. So soon after he promised to never fail her ever again, he disappointed her again! Depression hardened his heart as he became cognizant of the past few hours, trying to pinpoint when and how this misfortune occurred. In reality, he was too late – she was attacked, and he simply wasn’t there. Nothing could alleviate this now, nor could he travel back in time and precipitate the situation. Reality set in stone now, mocking him. He failed. He acknowledged it and hated himself. He averted his eyes in shame, trying to find solace in the lush grass glaring back up at him. Weakling. Frustration turned into anger, anger evolving into fury as Rogerson punched the ground before him and sighed, shaking his head. His pale knuckles dripped with renewed blood and he deserved it. He imagined not the slightest idea of making this up to her, though he thought and thought and twirled a physical apology around and around in his mind. He would rectify this situation somehow, obeying whatever she wanted, promising to make this up to her.[/color]