yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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metamorphosis2010-04-18 01:39 am
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-04-18 01:39 am
Entry tags:
73;
Title: Chase
Characters: Atlas, Jack, Delta, Little Sisters, various Splicers
Rating: PG
This why I stick with writing Hetalia fic, incidentally. Hola, messed up time line.
It was terribly, horribly bloody. Three thousand leagues and he still wasn't far enough. He had to get away, and quickly. Otherwise they'd find him and kill him and he wasn't so sure he could handle all of that before tea time.
He rested against a broken vending machine, trembling and holding the Colt tighter in his hands. Somewhere above him, they laughed and jigged and danced, they sang old Jesus songs and he couldn't handle it. So he shot up, right through the floor, waiting for their screams to dissipate before he continued up, wanting nothing but to escape this hell hole. He reached that level's Bathysphere, and wasn't surprised to find it shattered, just like the rest.
So he climbed his own way up, pained by the sharp bouts of pressure that made him sway on his spot and hold tighter to the sides – if he fell, he would fall too many feet, and that would surely kill him – and worm his way up, until the next level.
Wash, rinse, and repeat.
It stopped the moment he got to the pavilion. What stopped him was not one creature, but fifty. What stopped him not was the sounds of drills menacingly behind the row of Splicers, but the giggles and sing-song chanting of little girls playing together, as if they were going to be fine rather than sucking the life force out of things they called, in their twisted view, angels. He reached out his left hand and fire a line of fire – bright, burning, licking flames – in front of the battlers, shrinking away and switching to telekinesis to throw their bodies away, through the flames (already beginning to recede, and the monsters to advance), tears and sweat and blood, fuck the blood.
Only drills interrupt his mad working of the flames, the sounds of these not-quite human creatures being torn into fragments and little girls laughing childishly, following their guardians with only a mischievous look at him. They extracted the life force – and then they turned their attention to him.
“Don't worry, Mr. Bubbles. That angel won't hurt us.”
It was the first time one of them had spoken about him directly. Her guardian seemed to tilt his (her? its?) head as if listening, then backing off, the little girl following with a surprised, “Oh, thank you!”
The other five weren't so forgiving. Their girls tried to shoo them off, tried to tell them he was fine; they still moved closers, guns clicking and drills whirring and somewhere, he heard the faint flicker of a plasmid. No time to think on that now however; he ducked away and made a mad dash for the end of the pavilion, dodging bullets (that came close with a strange, machine-like precision) and angry screams and Victorian whoops (of the little girls, he assumed, so pretty in their stitched dresses).
He was stopped by a wall of fire – and on the other side, an incredible monster. Its left hand glowed a dangerous fire, crackling like embers and flames jumping from fingertip to fingertip every so often. On its right was the typical drill, whirring angrily – and yet its eyes were yellow, alert but seeming not to think he was the danger.
They turned crimson as soon as the other machine came screeching through the walls and the little girls screaming for them to stop, please stop, please don't hurt the angel!
Not even their tears, it seemed, could stop the rampage.
Only the single, sentient machine seemed to have any pity for him (and that was as low as you could get, as far as he was concerned) and protected him, firing straight into his comrades-in-arms, plasmids flaming and the little girls crying, pleading – but as soon as they saw the new guardian, flames gone and replaced with beautiful yellow lights, they ran to him, climbing on top of him and looking at him expectantly.
“Well? He just saved your life, angel. Isn't it kind to offer your thanks?”
The hulking thing half-turned to him, inclining its head slightly. He repeated the motion and it lumbered off, with the girls giggling as it lurched from side to side in an effort to keep in balance.
His radio sparked to life, erupting with an all-too familiar voice. It had rough and low, tired and relieved and something to hold for comfort.
“Whoa! That was a tough situation, wasn't it? Good thing you made it on out safe and sound... Now, would you kindly kill that beastly thing?”
Something in him felt pulled, obligated to do it, and yet his rational mind (what piece there was of it left) screamed at him not to, not to show gratitude this way, not to kill the hulking bastard.
He leveled his weapon to his eye, took aim, and shot as much as his ammunition could.
He ran until he found more.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
After a while the thing escaped, left him alone, holding its wounds and the Little Sisters all in one arm, dragging its busted leg with an eerie screeching sound, like nails on chalkboard. He shook slightly and fell to the ground, breathing heavily. And again, the voice.
“What's wrong, Jack? Are you tired? Don't worry – the thing roosts just inside Twilight Fields Funeral Homes. You can kill it while it's still wounded. Would you kindly perform that for me?”
He didn't know why he had to, but he didn't bother asking Atlas about it. That Irishman would avoid the question, would urge him to get on with it.
So he followed it.
Characters: Atlas, Jack, Delta, Little Sisters, various Splicers
Rating: PG
This why I stick with writing Hetalia fic, incidentally. Hola, messed up time line.
It was terribly, horribly bloody. Three thousand leagues and he still wasn't far enough. He had to get away, and quickly. Otherwise they'd find him and kill him and he wasn't so sure he could handle all of that before tea time.
He rested against a broken vending machine, trembling and holding the Colt tighter in his hands. Somewhere above him, they laughed and jigged and danced, they sang old Jesus songs and he couldn't handle it. So he shot up, right through the floor, waiting for their screams to dissipate before he continued up, wanting nothing but to escape this hell hole. He reached that level's Bathysphere, and wasn't surprised to find it shattered, just like the rest.
So he climbed his own way up, pained by the sharp bouts of pressure that made him sway on his spot and hold tighter to the sides – if he fell, he would fall too many feet, and that would surely kill him – and worm his way up, until the next level.
Wash, rinse, and repeat.
It stopped the moment he got to the pavilion. What stopped him was not one creature, but fifty. What stopped him not was the sounds of drills menacingly behind the row of Splicers, but the giggles and sing-song chanting of little girls playing together, as if they were going to be fine rather than sucking the life force out of things they called, in their twisted view, angels. He reached out his left hand and fire a line of fire – bright, burning, licking flames – in front of the battlers, shrinking away and switching to telekinesis to throw their bodies away, through the flames (already beginning to recede, and the monsters to advance), tears and sweat and blood, fuck the blood.
Only drills interrupt his mad working of the flames, the sounds of these not-quite human creatures being torn into fragments and little girls laughing childishly, following their guardians with only a mischievous look at him. They extracted the life force – and then they turned their attention to him.
“Don't worry, Mr. Bubbles. That angel won't hurt us.”
It was the first time one of them had spoken about him directly. Her guardian seemed to tilt his (her? its?) head as if listening, then backing off, the little girl following with a surprised, “Oh, thank you!”
The other five weren't so forgiving. Their girls tried to shoo them off, tried to tell them he was fine; they still moved closers, guns clicking and drills whirring and somewhere, he heard the faint flicker of a plasmid. No time to think on that now however; he ducked away and made a mad dash for the end of the pavilion, dodging bullets (that came close with a strange, machine-like precision) and angry screams and Victorian whoops (of the little girls, he assumed, so pretty in their stitched dresses).
He was stopped by a wall of fire – and on the other side, an incredible monster. Its left hand glowed a dangerous fire, crackling like embers and flames jumping from fingertip to fingertip every so often. On its right was the typical drill, whirring angrily – and yet its eyes were yellow, alert but seeming not to think he was the danger.
They turned crimson as soon as the other machine came screeching through the walls and the little girls screaming for them to stop, please stop, please don't hurt the angel!
Not even their tears, it seemed, could stop the rampage.
Only the single, sentient machine seemed to have any pity for him (and that was as low as you could get, as far as he was concerned) and protected him, firing straight into his comrades-in-arms, plasmids flaming and the little girls crying, pleading – but as soon as they saw the new guardian, flames gone and replaced with beautiful yellow lights, they ran to him, climbing on top of him and looking at him expectantly.
“Well? He just saved your life, angel. Isn't it kind to offer your thanks?”
The hulking thing half-turned to him, inclining its head slightly. He repeated the motion and it lumbered off, with the girls giggling as it lurched from side to side in an effort to keep in balance.
His radio sparked to life, erupting with an all-too familiar voice. It had rough and low, tired and relieved and something to hold for comfort.
“Whoa! That was a tough situation, wasn't it? Good thing you made it on out safe and sound... Now, would you kindly kill that beastly thing?”
Something in him felt pulled, obligated to do it, and yet his rational mind (what piece there was of it left) screamed at him not to, not to show gratitude this way, not to kill the hulking bastard.
He leveled his weapon to his eye, took aim, and shot as much as his ammunition could.
He ran until he found more.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
After a while the thing escaped, left him alone, holding its wounds and the Little Sisters all in one arm, dragging its busted leg with an eerie screeching sound, like nails on chalkboard. He shook slightly and fell to the ground, breathing heavily. And again, the voice.
“What's wrong, Jack? Are you tired? Don't worry – the thing roosts just inside Twilight Fields Funeral Homes. You can kill it while it's still wounded. Would you kindly perform that for me?”
He didn't know why he had to, but he didn't bother asking Atlas about it. That Irishman would avoid the question, would urge him to get on with it.
So he followed it.