So instead of updating Ninja Possession, here's Pt. 2 to the previous blurb

dxganronpa here'y'are ma'am

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Three weeks. It's been three weeks since I met that wonderful stranger on the sidewalk.

Not that I was keeping track.

I mean, I had enough to bother my mind with, anyway, so he hardly ever crossed my mind. With the two jobs I had goin' on -- well, my night job was relatively new, finally finding someone to work for, and all.

Ugh. Let me explain further.

So, I had the day job of walking the dogs -- I got another baby Rottweiler hehe --, hangin' with the cats and looking for an actual day job. My night job was roaming the streets kicking various criminals' asses into next Thursday -- sometimes as hired help. Since I was recently hired to kill a man, it had become a nice routine; go out, try to find Gallagher, kill the men I was interrogating. Go home, shower, eat, drink, nap, walk the dogs.

I had the distinct feeling that today, my routine was going to get interrupted. How did I know? Well, after three weeks of whittling down his protection detail to about three guys, I'd finally gotten to kill off Ricky Gallagher. Some guys -- the ones really low on his food chain -- had sworn off crime and ran.

I'd get them later.

Others, his more... loyal followers, had decided to hunt me down, make me pay for what I did. Sadly to say, they succeeded.

And so I ask again; how did I know my routine was going to be interrupted?

Right now I was haphazardly tossed in a dumpster on the Lower West Side, couple'a blocks from the docks. I had... several... gunshot wounds, one of which was on my right leg, right around my knee, and if I remember correctly it had gone straight through my leg. At least three of my ribs were cracked, or injured in some way, at least. My head got a few good cracks against the pavement. And a wall... and a few good punches... so I wasn't exactly the poster-child for coherence at the moment.

The bastards tossed me over the side of this dumpster in a back alleyway and walked away cackling. Ergo, I'd bleed out and die like the piece of trash I actually am, surrounded by my brethren.

I giggled at that analogy, feeling blood bubble up my throat and into my mouth at the action. Spent all my life thinking I'm a piece of trash, and here I end up.

I didn't even have enough strength to situate my left leg better. Right now my foot was up on the rim of the dumpster, half dangling outside. I wiggled my toes, just to see if I still could, and my boot ended up falling off. I heard it hit with a sad, muffled thump on the pavement below.

And then several more. Meaning footsteps. Heavy, thudding footsteps. Getting nearer. Great. Just what I need. Some random man finding me and either attempting to take advantage of me in my 0.3-seconds-from-dying state, or to call the paramedics.

However, I recognized the man who poked his head over the top of my dumpster. At least, I think I recognized him. My vision was darkening horribly around the edges, and the dim streetlight filtering in from the road was really unfocused and blurry.

I tried to tell Frank to go away, just leave me here in case those people came back. I couldn't rope an innocent man into this life. All that left my mouth were groans, though, muffled by my blood clotting in my throat.

What the hell was he doing out here, anyway? I'd have asked, but I still couldn't speak, and he was also reaching for me.

And suddenly my world flipped in a blur of soft light, and I was situated crossways in his arms, my fallen boot resting gently on my stomach by my right hand. When did that get there? My left arm... I couldn't feel it, and my head was laid so far back all I could see was the building's wall and -- oh look! Some of my skull-blood splattered on the wall from my earlier fight!

I think.

I think...

I think I'll just... just close my eyes...

"No y'don't," the arm holding my upper half jostled a considerable amount, making my eyes open back up, "Stay awake."

I could only groan at him, again, trying to make him put me back down. And... And I was so... tired, that I couldn't really even bring myself to care if my bandana was still over my mouth or not.

To prevent myself from falling asleep and getting jostled, I kept my unfocused gaze aimed at his face. Or, in the general direction. He had more bruises, new cuts. The two most prominent being on his temple and on his fat lip, both dripping blood down his face, and down his neck where it fell onto his jacket.

I let my head fall back, feeling blood drip down towards my ears from the corners of my mouth. We were inside a building, now, moving steadily up the stairs.

"Awake." I was gently jostled again as he adjusted his grip on me.

He was really, really blurry, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead creating a blinding outline that had me squinting even more than I should've been.

I was kind of startled when he shouldered open a door, the dull, cracked paint of the stairwell being switched out for a tan colour scheme as I was being gently maneuvered through a doorway.

Literally all I could see was the ceiling. It was an off white-grey colour. If I wanted to move my head, I couldn't, since I was losing all feeling below the head. God, I hope nothing hit anything major, like, my spine or something. Wouldn't that be just divine?

Frank stooped and flopped me on a couch, scooching some pillows behind my head. It was actually quite nice, compared to the trash I was just in. And then he left, out of my line of sight. His footsteps considerably lighter than before -- either that or my hearing was gone more than before.

I closed my eyes, thinking he'd just let me rest, now, but nope. His footsteps returned with a sharp, "Up." demanded at me. It was a gentle demand, but still had scary authority to it, so I slowly pried my eyes back open.

Frank knelt down on the floor beside my couch. He came back without his jacket, but with a small bin of various objects in one hand and a scissors in the other. I stopped paying attention to him by then, since an unbelievable cold had set into literally every muscle, bone and fiber in my body.

Or, well, maybe it had been slowly seeping in the entire time, and I just happened to notice now because I didn't want to think about my pain, or my stiffness, or how tired I was... or Frank. Just, Frank in general. Even splattered in blood, he was still ever-so-handsome. Just like I remember.

I tried to swallow, re-moisten my throat back up -- even with the blood, it was still really dry -- so I could tell Frank to just let me be. He was getting roped into some bad shit and he was such a nice dude! However, my swallowing did nothing to try to help my talking ability; in all honestly, I'd probably been shot in a lung and only had minutes to live.

I felt a strong breeze drift across my stomach, now, though. Wasn't helping my coldness at all, and I shivered. Frank muttered something that sounded like an apology, and I just continued staring at the spinning ceiling, trying to focus on keeping my breathing even.

It was when I felt something thin, long, cold and metal start digging into my side that I started wriggling. Maybe I was yelling? I couldn't really feel anything anymore, so if it hurt I didn't know, but the feeling was still intrusive and I didn't like it.

But the feeling was gone in an instant, quick as a wink, and I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding. I turned my head to the side just in time to watch Frank drop something small, metal and... bloody... into a clear, glass jar.

The jar looked like a mason jar, and was half filled up with others bloodied bullets -- yes, my mind had finally wrapped around the concept that Frank had dug a bullet out of my side.

Fun, right? And, y'know, I'd been so caught up in studying the jar of used bullets, that it hadn't registered Frank had taken his scissors and cut right up the centre of the front of my shirt until I felt the cool air and it was too late.

I grit my teeth, scrunching my eyes shut when the tweezers -- I didn't exactly know what else would be long, thin and metal -- dug into my shoulder, this time. My jaw was clenched so hard I was surprised my teeth hadn't cracked yet -- but I would not yell this time -- and when I attempted to move, his free hand began pressing down on my abdomen. It was really warm, which was quite a nice contrast.

It was as invasive as the tweezers, but nice.

As time went on, I became colder, chilled to the bone, and so I grew pretty numb to the bullet-removing. By the fifth bullet I do believe I was close to passing out, and all I remember is seeing needle and thread for a brief second before finally allowing the darkness to win.

Maybe he'll let me take a nap, now... 

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