I came in the ring like a dog on a chain.

[omnomgrenades]

Who| Shaw (aka Lucien Corleoneu) and You?
What| Watching PNN
Where| Some "off-boulevard" bar
When| The night of the latest PNNcast, pre-Crowning
Notes/Warnings| Cursing, general Shaw-ness. Nothing to bad at the moment.



Shaw sat at the end of the bar alone, by design and preference. He didn't draw attention to himself, didn't encourage company, but neither did he deny it when it turned his way.

He was just another guy, out for a drink. Nothing special. Nothing to be remembered.

That was how he lived; that was how he liked it.

That was how he'd survived this long.

No thanks to Panem Nightly fucking News. The anthem blared from the flat-screen above the mirrored backdrop of the counter and Shaw knocked back the last dregs of his beer, drowning the fanfare in the swish of liquor against his cheeks.

He'd known - as soon as he'd seen those damn cameras - that he should have crossed the street away from them, but no he'd worried that would be too obvious. Served him fucking right, doubting his own better judgement....

He wagged his empty glass at the barkeep, gesturing for another as the hosts started in.

"Make it a double."

Comments

[omnomgrenades]

The voice arrived before the man did. Muddied curses, muffled but undeniable carrying through the walls. Patrons paused, glancing between themselves. A man near the window peeked surreptitiously around the the curtain -- and jerked back hard when the door slammed open and Rick Ford stomped in.

At the bar, Shaw exhaled a heavy-breath.

Out of the pan, into the shitstorm.

"Just what I fucking needed," he muttered into his glass, knowing, even before Ford started in again that it was headed his way. "Oi," he echoed, turning when Ford stopped. "Is that any way to talk to your long-lost twin? How's about an inside voice?"

[intenserer]

Ford's face contorts into mild outrage. "Twin," he roars, not bothering to lower his voice, until he realizes that the whole bar is completely silent and staring. Readjusting his posture, Rick plants one heavy hand on the bar top, leaning in close to the other-him. The not-him. He goes on in a low, threatening growl.

"Twin my fuckin' balls, you're no brother of mine. I knew there was a fuckin' Face/Off machine, I just never expected you lot would have one, too. Where is it? So I can fuckin' drag you back there and you can give me my fuckin' face back."

This is not a drill. Rick Ford, grown man and CIA agent, is in complete belief that the Face/Off machine exists.

[omnomgrenades]

A muscle twitched near Shaw's mouth as Ford leaned in, but he didn't give any ground. Eyes narrowing - it just fucking weirder as they got closer - he said, "A what?"

Then his face twisted, snorting and scoffing as Ford went on.

"You really are a damn moron, aren't ya?" He raised a hand, finger circling around his face. "This is my face. I was born with it same as you."

Presumably. Close enough.

"Get over it, or get a surgeon. Just get out of my face before one of these twitchy bastards calls in the Peacekeepers."