<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/ac/600full-kenneth-branagh.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Tommy Flanagan (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9819558#msg9819558)<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>None<br/><strong>Date:</strong>25 December, 1875<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Streets of Gomorra<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Nell Robinson, Closed<br/><hr/><br/><br/>As a dime novel protagonist Tommy left something to be desired. Few successful rags featured the hero getting shot to death on page three after fumbling the drawing of his own gun. Almost none, in fact. "Thrilling Tales of Watching Women Getting Raped In Front Of You While You're Helpless to Prevent It" might have survived as a niche publication, but certainly behind the counter and not in front of it at the general store. Tommy tended to be a more "in front of the counter" sort of gentleman.<br/><br/>It was clear that the brute had a mind that was at best single-track and at worst more like plans for a railway line to eventually come through sometime in the next few years. The gorgeous redhead's gambit -- and wouldn't that be a good name for a serial novel, Tommy though. The Gorgeous Redhead's Gambit. Maybe not alliterative enough. And... he realized his thoughts were rambling again. Side effect of the adrenaline, perhaps -- had bought him a few moments, but the thug's gun was still in his hand, while Tommy's was securely bound beneath several layers of heavy cloth, thus insuring it would not get cold, which was clearly the worst possible thing that could happen on a back street of Gomorra.<br/><br/>Her distraction had given him time enough to escape, probably. And then how would he look this woman in the eye ever again? Or any woman at all? Or the mirror?<br/><br/>Gomorra was a town constantly balanced between rampant construction and utter devastation. Aside from the larger metaphorical lessons that could be drawn from such a condition, it also meant that a good solid piece of leftover lumber was usually within arm's reach. Tommy took up a plank that was leaning against the wall of a nearby building, perhaps destined for the work on a second-story extension taking place above their heads. He raised it above his head with both hands and moved toward the man. Sure, he was a big guy, but a solid shot on the head from a good piece of oak should still ---<br/><br/>Click. The hammer pulled back as the shadow of Tommy's approach drew the man's attention again. "You've done wasted your last chance there, rat. Time to die."<br/><br/>Tommy dropped the inadequate weapon, giving it enough of a toss that it wouldn't hit him on the way down. Without lowering his hands from their position above his head he drew a hand of playing cards. Not natural, these cards, and not pulled from any hidden compartment up his sleeve. If one were to look closely one could see the design of the card backs was disturbing in the extreme, a tightly woven knot of serpents and more fell creatures writhing around, quite literally, the spectral ink in motion forming a hypnotizing pattern. Tommy tried to never look at the card backs, as a matter of principle and sanity. He'd seen the land that the cards were drawn from. He'd visited it, just now, in the time that it took the board to fall to the height of his shoulders.<br/><br/>And he hadn't come back alone.<br/><br/>Knowing what was going to happen and dreading the feeling all the same, Tommy looked up at the cards in his hand. Four Queens, and a seven. The plank had reached his waist, and the man's finger was squeezing the trigger. At this range a miss would be pretty unlikely, even given the distraction of a voluptuous woman pinned to the wall in front of you. Then again, four of a kind was pretty unlikely too. Merry Christmas.<br/><br/>The soul fire exploded from Tommy's hand, engulfing the cards and turning them to spectral ash that joined the lance of blue flame stabbing toward the thug. It struck him in the back with almost physical force but did not penetrate; nothing touched the woman behind him. As time sped up again the board hit the ground, followed almost immediately by the man's gun, followed by the much larger thump of the lifeless body.<br/><br/>Then there was silence save for the dully filtered Christmas music coming from unaware celebrants in the nearby houses.<br/><br/>"It...it wasn't supposed to do that," Tommy offered, for the rictus on the man's face clearly showed he was not just enjoying an unscheduled slumber, which more or less had been Tommy's plan. Not the joker's plan, though, and on occasions such as this the temporary supernatural resident of his body tended to cast the tiebreaker vote. Now Tommy was alone again, save for the woman standing before him, and alone was how he was going to have to face the consequences. Jokers weren't really charmed with the idea of sticking around for the consequences.<br/><br/>