Frank's fucking pissed, first of all, that he managed to get so focused and distracted that he completely missed six assholes being right outside his door and carrying guns.
Second of all, he's calculating as fast he can how to help Talking Trouble, so he grabs him and in a flash he thinks they're both dragged behind the bed, except that he can't see Talking Trouble anywhere.
The first of the six walks in, sneering, saying something like Come out come out wherever you are and before Frank can fire through the bed at him, there's a blur of movement, a crash and then a scream as an arm shoots out and drags him into the bathroom.
Then what happens next is very, very strange--the second one gets thrown forward, Frank shoots him through the head as the third one also disappears in the bathroom, the fourth one runs in and Frank gets his legs and then his chest, Talking Trouble steps right behind the fifth one and slices his throat with something shiny, and the sixth one tries to run but Talking Trouble grabs him by the beltloops and in one smooth motion throws him into the room and shuts the door on them.
Frank walks over to the sixth one, gun aimed, as Talking Trouble comes over as well, head cocked. Frank sees the bathroom out of the corner of his eye and stomps on the sixth one's wrists, breaking them, and then Talking Trouble crouches down and holds a knife--taken off one of the mooks, no doubt--to the sixth one's throat.
"Keep it there. He moves, cut it," Frank says before he can consciously decide to. Talking Trouble seems competent enough.
He goes to look at the bathroom, and sees that Talking Trouble must have smashed the second one's head into the mirror, then cut his throat on a mirror shard. The third one's neck is broken cleanly, and the esophagus looks crushed too.
He looks down at the dead bodies, and then Frank looks at Talking Trouble, crouching obediently still, knife to the sixth guy's throat. Not a single hair is out of place. He's not got a drop of blood on him.
Goddamn, Talking Trouble is good. Frank ignores how much he likes that--it's difficult, he keeps having to punish idiots who don't understand how to fight--and walks over to the sixth one.
He stares at the asshole, stone-faced.
"Look," the mook starts begging. "I only came here to collect. I don't have no beef with you. We just want the bitch. That's all. I work for anyone, they told me, we got a pretty bitch that's gone and gotten stolen, come and get it back. I got my boys together. We didn't know it was gonna be with you, I swear to god. Maybe we can work something out? I pretend the bitch is dead, you cut off some of its fingers, I take em back?"
Frank doesn't bother to talk to the soon-to-be-dead man. Instead he asks Talking Trouble, "Would you like me to cut off your fingers so this little coward can go back and get paid?"
Talking Trouble, whose face had been relaxed during the whole babbling, says softly, "No, master, I like my fingers where they are."
"Wrapped around a knife?"
"That too, master," he murmurs.
"Hrm," Frank says, turning to the mook, then raises his gun and tells Talking Trouble, "Move backwards out of the way of blood splatter, don't get any HIV infections."
Who knows how alternate universes' diseases are different.
Talking Trouble gracefully gets behind Frank and sidesteps the dead bodies, like Trouble compensated for his blindness too. One toe sounds wrong.
Frank focuses more on the mook, and starts to interrogate him. It's quick and easy and the guy only tries to lie once, during which point Talking Trouble murmurs, "Master, he's lying, I can hear his heartbeat," which, holy fuck is useful.
Frank then shoots the guy when he's done with him, double-taps him and all the other corpses, grabs his go-bag, leaves behind the cooling and blood-splattered food, and they hightail it out of there.
"Kid, let's get some food," he says, and Talking Trouble doesn't perk up quite as much but does smile a small amount.
Minifill, Why Frank didn't kill Opposite, pt 3
Second of all, he's calculating as fast he can how to help Talking Trouble, so he grabs him and in a flash he thinks they're both dragged behind the bed, except that he can't see Talking Trouble anywhere.
The first of the six walks in, sneering, saying something like Come out come out wherever you are and before Frank can fire through the bed at him, there's a blur of movement, a crash and then a scream as an arm shoots out and drags him into the bathroom.
Then what happens next is very, very strange--the second one gets thrown forward, Frank shoots him through the head as the third one also disappears in the bathroom, the fourth one runs in and Frank gets his legs and then his chest, Talking Trouble steps right behind the fifth one and slices his throat with something shiny, and the sixth one tries to run but Talking Trouble grabs him by the beltloops and in one smooth motion throws him into the room and shuts the door on them.
Frank walks over to the sixth one, gun aimed, as Talking Trouble comes over as well, head cocked. Frank sees the bathroom out of the corner of his eye and stomps on the sixth one's wrists, breaking them, and then Talking Trouble crouches down and holds a knife--taken off one of the mooks, no doubt--to the sixth one's throat.
"Keep it there. He moves, cut it," Frank says before he can consciously decide to. Talking Trouble seems competent enough.
He goes to look at the bathroom, and sees that Talking Trouble must have smashed the second one's head into the mirror, then cut his throat on a mirror shard. The third one's neck is broken cleanly, and the esophagus looks crushed too.
He looks down at the dead bodies, and then Frank looks at Talking Trouble, crouching obediently still, knife to the sixth guy's throat. Not a single hair is out of place. He's not got a drop of blood on him.
Goddamn, Talking Trouble is good. Frank ignores how much he likes that--it's difficult, he keeps having to punish idiots who don't understand how to fight--and walks over to the sixth one.
He stares at the asshole, stone-faced.
"Look," the mook starts begging. "I only came here to collect. I don't have no beef with you. We just want the bitch. That's all. I work for anyone, they told me, we got a pretty bitch that's gone and gotten stolen, come and get it back. I got my boys together. We didn't know it was gonna be with you, I swear to god. Maybe we can work something out? I pretend the bitch is dead, you cut off some of its fingers, I take em back?"
Frank doesn't bother to talk to the soon-to-be-dead man. Instead he asks Talking Trouble, "Would you like me to cut off your fingers so this little coward can go back and get paid?"
Talking Trouble, whose face had been relaxed during the whole babbling, says softly, "No, master, I like my fingers where they are."
"Wrapped around a knife?"
"That too, master," he murmurs.
"Hrm," Frank says, turning to the mook, then raises his gun and tells Talking Trouble, "Move backwards out of the way of blood splatter, don't get any HIV infections."
Who knows how alternate universes' diseases are different.
Talking Trouble gracefully gets behind Frank and sidesteps the dead bodies, like Trouble compensated for his blindness too. One toe sounds wrong.
Frank focuses more on the mook, and starts to interrogate him. It's quick and easy and the guy only tries to lie once, during which point Talking Trouble murmurs, "Master, he's lying, I can hear his heartbeat," which, holy fuck is useful.
Frank then shoots the guy when he's done with him, double-taps him and all the other corpses, grabs his go-bag, leaves behind the cooling and blood-splattered food, and they hightail it out of there.
"Kid, let's get some food," he says, and Talking Trouble doesn't perk up quite as much but does smile a small amount.