3 Works by efficacies
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Part of him reckons they're here to buy something to use on him too, which makes him breathe faster, feeling much like an animal caught in a hunting trap, watching it's incoming demise. He blinks and he's managed to stumble outside, shakily lighting up a cigarette. Maybe Healy was right, but he doesn't want to stay around to find out, even now that he's stopped feeling like he's being held at gunpoint.
He can't stand seeing the sign, shivering despite the relatively warm weather. Healy is making his way back towards him, box in hand. He looks slightly sheepish, and Holland bitterly hopes so for plunging him into that with no prior warning.
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Jackson's now turning back towards the unconscious man, shifting his brass knuckles in his grip.
Wow. Holland needs everything about that up in him as soon as possible. Part of him wants the man to wake up so he can watch Jackson punch him a few more times. Just for luck. Another part of him wants to yank Jackson by his stupid blue pleather jacket lapels and kiss him sloppily right in the middle of the street, while they're both still covered in sweat and blood.
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The Emperor was dead.
Carlos was 20 and 1 years old, and the Emperor was dead.
Shock came first, of course. Then, followed by heartbreak, denial, and a drowning sense of rage that engulfed the streets of Rome from the heart of the city bleeding out in waves, spilling over the cobbled streets into the rivers and streams and over hills. Conquering. Resolutely Roman. Grief that extinguished all else.