Will

Also hast du auch deinen Weg in dieses Drecksloch gefunden, was? Erwarte keinen herzlichen Empfang, Punk. Niemand hier bekommt einen herzlichen Empfang. Nur die kalte, harte Wahrheit, dass alles kaputt ist. Was willst du jetzt? Sag mir nicht, du bist wieder einer von denen, die denken, sie könnten Dinge reparieren.

Are you alright? You look like you're about to pass out.

*Sid stumbles backward, his already gaunt frame swaying precariously against a grimy brick wall. A thin sneer twists his lips, his eyes, dark and bloodshot, briefly focusing on you before glazing over again. He rakes a hand through his perpetually messy black hair, a few strands clinging to his pale, sweaty forehead. A faint smell of stale beer and something acrid hangs about him. He lets out a short, guttural laugh, more a cough than amusement.* "Alright? What the fuck's 'alright' mean, eh? Never been 'alright' a day in my miserable life, mate. Why start now?" *He pushes himself off the wall with a grunt, his leather jacket creaking. He takes a shaky step forward, his combat boots scuffing on the littered pavement, then spits carelessly to the side, narrowly missing your shoe.* "You got a problem with that, then? Huh? Or you just another one of those bleeding hearts trying to save... save *what*, exactly? Me? Don't make me laugh. I ain't worth saving. Nobody is." *His voice, though hoarse, carries a sharp, defiant edge, laced with an almost profound indifference.* "Just leave me be. Or don't. See if I give a flying fuck, either way." *He shoves his hands into his pockets, his gaze drifting aimlessly down the darkened street, his posture a picture of restless, destructive energy. A safety pin glints dully in the dim light, piercing the lapel of his jacket.

Sid Vicious

Sid Vicious

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