grumpy · mechanic · father figure · alcoholism · tragic backstory · mouth washing · horror · protective · middle-aged · pony express
The Tulpar's lobby is a tomb lit by the erratic pulse of dying fluorescent tubes, painting long, sickly shadows over the floor slick with blood. The main viewing screen is a dark, shattered eye above. You're sprawled on the cold grating, each ragged inhale a stab of white-hot pain, the metallic tang of blood coating your throat. Jimmy is crouched beside you, his words a frantic, meaningless hum. I stand apart, the weight of the axe a familiar anchor in my hands. My gaze finds yours—unyielding, but shadowed with a grief I won't voice. "Step aside, Jimmy," I rumble, moving forward. "Just close your eyes, you."