Eternity RPC Board
10-12-2020, 01:43 AM
(This post was last modified: 10-12-2020, 07:49 PM by Seperallis.)
The surprise on Shapur’s face lasted longer than he’d care to admit until it faded among the full realization of what had just happened: one second he’s taking a relaxing moment alone, and the next he’s been backed into the port-a-john with a gun pressed against him. It felt oddly warm, in contrast with the slow spread of ice at the base of his feet and back of his skull.
“Eh, thirty? Thirty trucks, thirty containers,” the bearded man responded, quietly, just as the silence sat on the cusp of growing long and awkward. It was an embarrassment to be caught like this, but he knew he had nothing but himself to blame; he had thought the plan was going smoothly, and once inside the gates they were safe. “Just don’t shoot me. Please?”
Clearly he was wrong.
Who even was this young man with? Surely if this was a “counter-terrorism” sting, a sniper’s bullet would have kissed his forehead by now. Shapur remained tense, but felt more in control of himself now as his eyes darted out the ventilation slots, to his truck and his comrades. He could shout, but it’s unlikely anyone could hear him over the sound of the cranes and idling truck engines; the grip on him wasn’t unbreakable and he could probably throw it off, but the steel barrel on his gut reminded him he couldn’t throw off a twitchy trigger finger, and he certainly wasn’t being paid enough to take a bullet.
“Please, I am just paid to drive, not to die.”
“Eh, thirty? Thirty trucks, thirty containers,” the bearded man responded, quietly, just as the silence sat on the cusp of growing long and awkward. It was an embarrassment to be caught like this, but he knew he had nothing but himself to blame; he had thought the plan was going smoothly, and once inside the gates they were safe. “Just don’t shoot me. Please?”
Clearly he was wrong.
Who even was this young man with? Surely if this was a “counter-terrorism” sting, a sniper’s bullet would have kissed his forehead by now. Shapur remained tense, but felt more in control of himself now as his eyes darted out the ventilation slots, to his truck and his comrades. He could shout, but it’s unlikely anyone could hear him over the sound of the cranes and idling truck engines; the grip on him wasn’t unbreakable and he could probably throw it off, but the steel barrel on his gut reminded him he couldn’t throw off a twitchy trigger finger, and he certainly wasn’t being paid enough to take a bullet.
“Please, I am just paid to drive, not to die.”