<strong>Name:</strong>Adam Smith<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Main Room<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>None<br/><hr/><br/>Adam sat at a table, once more alone. The musclebound grotesque sat with his back slightly bent, intent on nothing so much as the patterns of the tabletop's material. His pale blue eyes were rapt with the lines upon the table's surface, and nothing that transpired within the main room drew his attention away from it. There were others dancing, somewhere, and others drank and socialized, but Adam sat alone and occupied by nothing that would be of interest to any of the other patrons. In truth, this did not even interest Adam. He felt, almost, as if he was without the mask. It was a dismaying listlessness and sense of impending torpor that conflicted with the security of the mask pressed against the flesh of his face. The lack of motivation, the lack of urge to do, should simply not have been with the mask on. Perhaps it was something about the club. Maybe there was no job here after all - so much time had passed and no one had approached Adam about the expected offer of a job.<br/><br/>Then something happened. The majority of the patrons were gone, and there was a white flash and a surge of heat. Adam felt the heat to his bones, and felt the sting in his eyes as the white consumed the chair opposite the one he occupied and half of the table he sat at. The blazing white did not fade quickly, and Adam was afflicted by blindness. It would be transitive, as all ills of the flesh ultimately were for him, and the stinging of burnt optics was just another sensation. The table fell over, lacking proper supports, and Adam was unable to see it happen. When the table struck the floor it sounded like a very distant thing, although this was a trick of apathy and not the result of damage to Adam's ears.<br/><br/>Submachine gun fire was, likewise, a distant noise that Adam paid no credence to. When it struck his chest, halted by the vest he wore, Adam could not even muster the wherewithal to grunt at the various impacts nor even count their number. Feeling the pain in any meaningful sense was just too bothersome. It forced him backwards, and he fell, breaking the chair he was seated in into so much scrap. Adam landed on his back and lay there, a wet feeling at his back revealing that some bullets had strayed from a fairly consistent - for a submachine gun on fully automatic - grouping on his center mass. These had penetrated, and Adam was bleeding from perhaps a dozen shallow wounds - the bullets had not penetrated terribly far. His eyes were still too damaged to see anything, and so when someone came along with a shotgun and discharged both barrels into his unprotected throat, Adam had little inkling of what was to come beyond the sound of footfalls upon the floor. Light ones, taken at a leisurely pace. Then the hammer of the shotgun, maybe sawn-off, clicking into place and the pull of the trigger.<br/><br/>And then nothing. The blissful convenience of nothing.