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Post by Deleted on Jun 12, 2013 7:39:06 GMT -8
There's something to be said for trying bars in new cities. For better or worse, it's always an adventure. Each one is different, with its own regional flavor. That being said, there's one thing that's becoming way, way too commonplace.
"Hey asshole, you can't smoke that in here."
The bartender is eyeing the unlit cigarette in my hand. It was currently living out its last moments being twirled between the index and thumb of my right hand. Oh well, it would live to burn another day.
"Sure thing, boss man. Mind if I get another beer?"
It's clear that my accent is getting on his nerves. It's a laconic sort of southern drawl that just seems to irritate people in these parts. Fuck 'em. I'm not here to impress the fatass barkeep. Not really here to impress anyone, really. I'm on my way north, to Maine, on the grounds that it's about as far removed from the desert as I'm likely to find. The trees, the grass, the deer, it has a strong appeal for someone who just spent a year around sand and rocks and camels.
That was the eventual goal, but first, the bar. Or rather, the person I'm supposed to be meeting here. She's a friend from the internet, just so happened to be in the area. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, to meet up in a relatively neutral location. She's a bit more familiar with the territory, but I'm not terribly worried about her trying to mug me. You don't spend the better part of a year writing with someone for the sole purpose of trying to steal their wallet.
So here I am, sitting at a bar that's getting shittier by the minute, drinking decent but overpriced beer, pissing off the bartender with my very existence, waiting for someone who I likely won't recognize on sight to show up. Hell, she might already be here. Either way, there's only so long I can sit up here before fatass here tries to bounce me out on my ass.
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Jun 12, 2013 14:07:49 GMT -8
This city was great at giving you impressions when the reality was something different. No matter what you were: white, black, fat, hot, gay, triple crossed, Nazi, Jewish, Jedi, up, down, genius, stupid, or even if you were the Devil himself, it wouldn't matter -as long as you have currency, then you got what whatever the other guy on the counter wants. Only thing to it, however, is that if they can tell you're foreign and a sap, they'll take everything you've got -no problem, no remorse, fuck you and your face. It was such a lovely place.
Souls pass in front of the bar casting solemn shadows, and each one is in a rush. This continues, until a group of four stop. A minute passes while vague limbs express conversation. Two of the figures peel off with parting waves, now two figures remain. They linger, perhaps discussing what exactly this was all about. In any case, the shorter of the two moves to the door.
This place, this bar -it was so cheap. They couldn't even afford a bouncer, never mind the money to buy an "A" grade from the health inspectors.
The wooden door creaks open, and through the threshold comes a young man -impeccably dressed. He comes in with a vest, tie, and even a dark cap -though it invoked the image of one of those old Wehrmacht hats. He is pale, yet healthy -life is his to indulge in. The man is short, standing only at 5'8", built like a bull and yet chubby. What could he say? Everyone has a vice. His dark eyes quickly scan, taking everything in as a possible threat. All this takes but a second, and then he proceeds to press his back against the door, as if he suddenly must stand at attention. As he holds the door open you can peer past and spot the other vagueness flicking a cigarette haphazardly over its shoulder.
Do you know what she thought? "I hope it hits someone."
She passes the threshold, not thanking or even regarding the gentleman who was kind enough to hold the rather dirty door, so what? Now it's her turn to look about while expelling the last puff from her smoke into the bar. This of course garners a bar full of disgusted faces. What did she care? She hated every person in here. She did not know them, but hated them nonetheless. Why? Why the Hell not? She could give off a hundred reasons to each and every one.
She has come straight away from work. Big wake today. Dozens of crying faces. It would have been touching, emotional, to witness such devotion to one who has passed. Really though, at this point, she usually just says they are dead. None of that nonsense made even the slightest touch in her head. Our tall dame proceeds to the bar, and with these damn boots, 6'1" as a claim could not be a farce. She approaches the bar, bringing with her the smell of smoke and that light powdery smell the dead seemed to bathe in.
As luck would have it, she stands in the spot right next to bloke being death glared by a fat bartender. As is common in situations when the keep doesn't look at you upon making it obvious you were ordering a drink, she executes the old standby: she rudely raps her knuckles against the counter. Once fatso takes a gander, she quips: "Hallo. Hoegaarden, please." Fatty sends her a stabbing, "What?" Most likely on account that she pronounced it as how-gar-ten. You know, the proper freaking way? Asshole. She repeats herself, saying it the dumb way some sweating jerk from Brooklyn might say it, "Ho'garden. Pint. Please." Tubby prepares the beer while getting a blue eyed death glare. You know, her normal stare. This was just the way she looked around normally, until Happy or Sad kicked her in the chest.
She places seven dollars on the counter, pulls off the suit jacket, and hands it over to her companion, who takes it with a slight nod. He orders his beer, whatever black liquid bread he liked to drink. While she turned to gaze back at the rest of the bar and take a swig, he quietly takes her money, tucks it into one of her jacket's pocket, and pays fatty with a $20 from his own wallet. While he does that, she shakes out her hair -flowing chestnut, like copper, but darker. This extends down to the small of her back, and this would be considered tame by her standards: it was once past her ass.
"Marilyn," says the butler, his voice trying its best tone of a wisdom, "This is insane."
"Isaac," she throws back, mocking his tone while continuing to look about, "You've done worse; how can you judge? You promised you'd at least try to have some fun."
"Yeah, thanks, I know what I said. What if this guy kills us?" He retorts.
"Then we'll be dead. What do you care? You always said you wanted to die young." And then Marilyn gives him a smirk, playing out being killed by an Internet Psycho in her head.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 12, 2013 21:37:52 GMT -8
I can't help but snort. The timing is perfect, almost to the second. The short fucker's voiced concerns pretty much sealed the deal. Either this is her, or I'm about to make a stranger very uncomfortable.
"If I were going to kill you, I'd have shanked your ass when you came through the door," I say, not even bothering to look up from the beer. The accent is so thick now that you can almost cut it with a knife. "Relax, kid. I ain't gonna hurt ya. If you'd be so kind as to return the favor, I would greatly appreciate it."
Now I look up, and immediately feel underdressed for the occasion. Worn out Black Mesa tshirt, faded jeans, desert tan combat boots that had seen better days, and a long black canvas duster slung over the back of the chair. The whole getup smells faintly of cordite and black powder, a scent accrued over years of playing with firearms. I haven't shaved in a few days, I'm wearing my most battered set of BCGs, and despite the high and tight haircut, my hair still manages to look unruly. It doesn't help that the bar's shitty lighting makes the grey in my otherwise dark brown hair stand out.
"How's it going, Marilyn?"
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Jun 12, 2013 21:53:38 GMT -8
Both Marilyn and Isaac smile widely, seeing as they were both twisted fuckers of the highest of caliber, but for somewhat different reasons. She sees it as many things: her life once again twisting her into a happy punchline, the silliness of it, but something else also. It could only be summed up as happy chagrin. The butler, on the other hand, waxes more on the sheepish side. If she knew him, and she did: he was feeling somewhat embarrassed. He'd get it over it.
Still beaming, Marilyn looks the man up and down with quick, intense gazes. Some of these stab at any and all his gear. Mostly they searched for signs, markers, attachments to who and what: things like a ring, necklace, and a hundred details that was not uncommon for a woman to search for in any introduction.
"Kid? You see, tha's the kinda shite that makes anyone sound old. "
Hug? Quick knife stab? Double kick and flee? No, no, no. Too dramatic. How about the standard handshake?
She holds out her hand, almost 146 percent sure that this was the guy. This HAD to be him.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 13, 2013 7:34:07 GMT -8
I stand and accept the offered hand. Grip firm but not crushing. I rarely get involved with the whole hand breaking routine. Standing 6'4" barefoot and weighing 230lbs usually gets the point across.
"At least they won't think I'm after their Lucky Charms," I say, trying not to smirk. This is an old game for us, a contest to see who's the bigger prick. The jury was still out on that.
I can't help but notice the rather thorough visual examination. No rings, though a faded tan line on the left hand suggests that there might have been one some time in the past. The only jewelry, if it can be called that, consists of dogtags, a watch on the left wrist, and a grey and black paracord bracelet on the right. The things had become popular among soldiers, mainly because there aren't many situations that can't be solved by about 20 feet of 550 cord in the right hands. It also makes for one hell of a knuckleduster, if need be.
I nod towards her companion.
"What's with Jeeves?"
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Jun 13, 2013 9:33:23 GMT -8
'Jeeves' chuckles to himself, as he usually did when someone called him a butler, but before he can respond, Marilyn quips up, always eager to take a moment to run her mouth.
"He's my butler." She says, and he snorts, amused, but annoyed at being referred to as such by her. Maybe it annoyed him, maybe it was funny, maybe it hurt his feelings. In any case, male pride, or whatever the Hell they think it is, keeps the truth behind that hidden.
"I'm Marilyn's boyfriend. Not surprised she didn't mention me as such. I'm not sure how much you've guys have talked or what about, but lemme give you a tip. She's a jerk. Like, possibly the worst person in the Universe."
To which she scoffs. "Yeah, says the man who'd probably be a dictator if he had the cash. No, not probably, definitely. Go get me some money, Bum." An eye roll, his phone vibrates, and he turns towards the counter to drink and read the text. Meanwhile, she continues to smile pleasantly while looking upon our super soldier. "Christ, you're freaking tall! How do you fit in a car? I already hafta sit either way back or hunch a bit. i thought those jeeps or hummers were cramped as all Hell. I like the boots, very brolic. Don't worry about us and the clothes, we just both got off work and met up. Although, knowing you, you probably don't give a shit about stupid things like that."
If he couldn't tell, the old talking engine was revving up. Usually people would have to either cut her off or respond with a different rant.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 13, 2013 11:57:07 GMT -8
Boyfriend, huh? I convey my condolences to him through the art of the raised eyebrow.
"Humvees are cramped as hell. Great part about being an NCO: I don't have to drive. Fitting behind the wheel of one in gear is murderous."
The accent starts to fade as small talk commences. It's just one of those things that have been freaking folks out since childhood. Get me tired or stressed and it comes on full force. And it's not a readily identifiable one either; most folks assume it's southern, but most southerners can't figure out where the hell it's from. Elements of Appalachian Mountains drawl, a bit of the Piedmont, but the syntax is all wrong. Not that anyone who didn't grow up in the area would realize how fucked up it was.
And once I relax or get hit with a different sort of stress altogether, it vanished faster than a six pack of Bud Lite on the tailgate of a pickup truck.
"Fuck you, do you have any idea how hard it is to get black powder burn stains off a jacket?"
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Jun 15, 2013 18:50:18 GMT -8
"Or you could, you know, not suck enough to get those burns in the first place." Instantly retorts Marilyn. Something on her face twists a little more than is normal for light conversation. It was a twisted sense of self displaying in a quick flash -the kind of thing that kept her a misanthrope for most of her school years. Was it possible to tell that she was being a little more rude than was necessary? Could one even detect that she wasn't aware of such abnormalities? Wilson may have led his pen-pal to the impression that he was infinitely thick-skinned and quick-witted, but there was at least a filter when speaking through computer screens. Seeing this girl's mouth warp like that, teeth bared widely, menacingly, it was not the way we were supposed to act. Luckily for Marilyn, she had a good friend since 16; a good friend, a butler, that could check her sweeping gestures and downright disturbing sense of expression.
This now manifested in that bar on that faithful night, as Isaac detected it for whatever reason. Maybe he could hear her lips as they pull back sharply over her gums. Maybe it was hearing those traces of spit being slid through a pressed grin. Maybe spending that much time with someone made both parties psychic. Most likely, he just gave a damn about her, and made it his job to take care of someone who could use the help, but was forever doomed to be too proud to admit it. He turns on the stool and places a hand her shoulder, pulling his charge back slightly to break whatever it was that had her focused on staring in such an alarming manner -trying to keep this as normal as possible.
"Now, now, how would you know? You don't really deal with black powder burns. Well, hey! No body actually told me your name. Certain people I know have as much sense as mud. What do I call you, Man?" Isaac leans over, still pulling Marilyn even further back, and reaching out with hand to shake the soldier's.
Meanwhile, as this little move happens, Marilyn switches over from creeper smile, to a slight "O" of surprise, then sort of looks on upon both gentlemen with a sense of anticipation. Obviously, she's a bit stupid with excitement.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 16, 2013 8:11:12 GMT -8
I'm about to retort-sensing the start of our customary round of insults that had become so familiar over the last months-when Marilyn's boyfriend/butler butts in. It's safe to assume that he's not privy to the sort of gleeful malice that permeates a typical conversation between Marilyn and myself, so I can't fault him for trying to head things off.
I offer a handshake.
"Ah, shit. My bad man. I'm Wilson. Nice to meet ya."
So far, this is shaping out about like I had expected. I half expected her to bring a friend, and it stands to reason that anyone that could put up with her would be able to exert some control over her excesses, or she'd have likely been arrested years ago. Seems like a straightforward fellow, so we'll skip the hand crusher here too.
"I think, at this point, that southern hospitality demands that I buy you folks a drink." Episode 6, return of the accent. It comes and goes as it pleases after a few beers. "At least someone ought to act like a human in this godforsaken city."
As if to illustrate my point, there's a hollow pop off in the distance. 9 mil maybe? It lacks the deeper tones of a heavy caliber pistol and doesn't have the sharp crack associated with rifle fire. It pretty much fits in with the mental image I'd built of this place over the afternoon. Still, I miss the comforting weight of my Colt on my hip. Antiquated though it may be, and utter hell on decent clothes, I trust that old lump of iron and brass and wood far more than a Glock or Sig. 6 well aimed lead balls are more than a match for homie spraying the place down with 20. Damn this city and their retarded gun laws.
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Jun 16, 2013 18:19:32 GMT -8
"Well, Wilson. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I wasn't sure what to think of you: I mean, for me it's like you poofed out of the shadows. It honestly did piss me off that Marilyn didn't mention you. You know how it is: suddenly you find out there's another guy and where does your mind go? I wasn't sure if I was going to find out if she was seeing some other guy behind my back. Had that whole burning throat feeling and everything. But you're buying a round? Damn, I was wrong about you." So says Isaac. But then they all hear the hollow pop. This wasn't a normal thing in the city, at least not at Saint Marks at 8 the evening. Some of the bar goers pause. Even Marilyn lifts her head. The duo exchanges glances, and uneasy conversation once again resumes in the bar. Marilyn says a little something to wipe away the sudden intensity in his face.
"Probably a tire popping, or maybe a blowout?"
"No, that's too clear. Look, Trevor and Bonnie should be getting close now, I'm just gonna go meet them at the corner." Isaac then turns to Wilson while handing the woman's suit jacket back. "Shouldn't be more than five minutes. Take care of her, Wilson. She has a horrible tendency to bring trouble. It'll be worth a shot of whatever you want to me. Be back!" He collects his hat, and exits the bar.
Now the two unlike souls remain. A breath or two passes. What does she do? Talk, of course.
"I didn't bring him to send a sign or be a bitch or whatever. He usually really likes that whole army thing, at least, from what you guys probably call a civie perspective. Thought he'd think you're cool too. Bah. None of us know how to act fucking normal. Kinda hopeless like that: blind helping the blind. For some reason, I'd thought you'd be mad. Guess you keep surprising me. To be fair, I come up with some pretty crazy preconceptions."
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Post by Deleted on Jun 17, 2013 6:32:37 GMT -8
I grin nervously, trying to suppress the spike of fear. I've always had good instincts, and mine are screaming.
"It's all good. Probably better that you brought him along anyway."
My right hand keeps drifting to that side, tapping the spot on my upper thigh where the butt of the revolver usually sits.
"Wouldn't want to get you in trouble or anything. He doesn't strike me as the jealous sort, but you have to admit that this has to look a bit odd to him. Probably should have mentioned me a bit sooner. Oh well."
I grab my jacket off the chair and remove my pipe and a bag of tobacco. The bartender glares again as I start packing the bowl, but doesn't say anything. Fuck that guy. Once the bowl is packed, the duster goes on, the long tail flapping dramatically in the breeze as it blows through the open door. I offer the cigarette from earlier to Marilyn; it wasn't going to cut it for me.
"Care for a smoke?"
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Jun 17, 2013 8:20:50 GMT -8
"Definitely, please."
Another pop punctuates her sentence, this one louder, clearer, and closer. And then it happens. It's the first of a tentative first salvo.
!BUHBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
The bar shakes, ground rumbles like a shaken baby, and you could hear debris lacerating cars, glass, faces. Screams, shrieks. Quite suddenly an even worse turmoil of noise fills every crevice and every ear. It's the sound of a hundred car alarms going off at once, a chaotic orchestra trying to mimicking the pace of human panic at a thousand decibels. The building's lights flicker, weaken, then buzz at full power as back-up generators take up the slack.
Even if Wilson had tried to yell at her to hold, it would be impossible to stop Marilyn. She kicks the front door with every iota of strength her right leg could muster; this causes the tin plate covering to indent, sends rusty old nuts and bolts flying like popped buttons on a fat man, and more importantly, violently crashes the front door open. Good thing that wasn't a heavy wood or steel door, or that would really just hurt and do nothing. She swiftly stomps out into the sidewalk, into the psycho drama as flames consumed one end of Saint Marks. A number or cars are overturned, as obviously something quite effective at flipping tonnage had just struck the intersection. The surreal reveals itself: a few citizens are running away, yelling and tripping. In the crater, in the flames, you could hear the inhuman moans as people just a moment ago, homeless, loved ones, hated ones, all of them burned and writhed. How is it that they can withstand it so long? Why won't they lay down and stop? You could see limbs burn off, see ruin, and yet somehow they continue to scream.
Isaac?
Nothing matters. Objective: please oh fucking God no no no no nonononononono. Please God anything. Please God everything. I'll do it all. Help me. Help me. Hel-
Of course.
God wears black.
God makes Hell.
Marilyn runs up to one of the few unmoving corpses near the conflagration. Heat? What was that? Adrenaline smacks the discomfort away. She knew it as she knelt to his body on his right side. He was gone. He was dead. He was a corpse. She had seen it everyday for years. The eyes without light. The stiffness. The warmth so briefly tucked away and already waning, even near this fire. Death was nothing. Death had no effect. Seeing someone you loved for so many years like this was something completely different. A thought couldn't prepare you. Movies didn't even get close. Books had no hope. There was absolutely no horror like the broken body of her lover. Once strong, once cunning, reduced to a red and white parody that they often joked about. Concussive force had smashed the baseline of his head clean off its spine. You could tell from how his head tilted backwards at an impossible angle. Teeth were chipped and some had blasted off. Nose broken. Forehead indented. Glasses shattered like cheap aluminum. Those dark eyes, those eyes with the touch of cherrywood, they budged at two different angles. Was that pain? Did it hurt? Did dying hurt? Poor, poor man. That slight pot belly he had developed from years of an indulgent lifestyle had burst from the explosive force, splitting it down the center, ripping open his shirt.
She begins to shake.
What was once Isaac now had its intestine trailing outwards, ever outwards like a bad impression of a river. It reeks. He reeks. The digestive tract snakes outward, snaking left, snaking right, and finishing off far closer to the crater aflame. Is that what had happened? He was standing on the edge of the blast zone. Close enough to send him soring, broken, to this ruination, but far enough to keep him ending up like those sad sods now twitching on the ground, gargling for Jesus, a Jedi, or anything.
An overturned taxi explodes as the gas tank catches embers. Shards of all shapes and sizes pepper the street. Superficial ones assault the kneeling woman with the horrified face. She didn't even notice it. Nor did she notice her hair violently blowing away from the wave of energy, as it causes her copper locks to flip wildly, singeing the very tips in instant-vaporization. Gasoline pours out from the charred husk of the yellow cab, dipping asphalt in something volatile. Another car in the crater goes up. KA-BOOM. Another fresh wave of screaming assails the ears, broken people of all shapes, colors, and sizes dragging or hobbling away while others fell dead.
Is this what you wanted? Is this the glorious death you talked about? Did you picture your smashed body? Did you think on how now the fires will overtake you and cremate you? Did you stop to consider that there would be nothing left of you? Just dreams? Our dreams? Our hopes? All of those were like the floating ashes in the air, reflecting one at a time and fading forevermore. Was it your fault? No. But do you realize that by dying? You've left me? You've left me. You're gone. Gone.
God wears black.
Marilyn, shaking uncontrollably, pulls back into reality. All this death, all these dying. The tune they made when they played together: it was nothing like how she used to write about. This was real. This was wrong. All those jokes. All the grinning at violence. All of it was a lie.
A trembling hand stabs into Isaac's stained collar, then wrenches out one of the tags on the pair of Dog Tags he always wore.
Move. Move. Move. God wears black. Move. Sprint. Dash. Stupid girl, move. Move! MOVE!
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Post by Deleted on Jun 17, 2013 9:33:50 GMT -8
I'm out the door, hot on her heels. It's immediately clear that this was no accident. Cars don't just blow up like that. And since the buildings make indirect fire improbable, I'm forced to conclude that the explosives were placed.
Marilyn stops in front of a body, and I know it's her friend. Shit. The Army taught me how to fix a lot of stuff, but this guy is beyond the help of mere mortals. You don't walk away from something like that.
There are shadowy figures at the end of the street, not running around like a normal person would, not seeking cover, not offering aid. They are...marching. Armed too, though it's hard to tell with what through all the smoke. I grab Marilyn by the back of her jacket, trying to get her to her feet.
"We've got to get out of here," I scream, trying to make myself heard over the cacophony. The world takes on a surreal detachment as adrenaline floods my body. My vision gets sharper, or rather, it becomes more attuned to the minutiae of the world around us. "There's an alley back this way, come on!"
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Jun 17, 2013 10:01:53 GMT -8
The pull couldn't come soon enough. jarring, but what exactly was needed to spring one into action. As they sprint into the alleyway, she slips off the back off her foot, stumbles, still shaken far too much to even execute a simple turn that would have been easy, if not for the psychologically damaging circumstances. Marilyn crashes into a set of tin plastic trash cans, sends their contents flying, and tries her best to quickly plant her arms and keep sprinting. Hot, stabbing pain lashes out from her right elbow, causing acute pain, but also melting away that stupidity of panic like a hot laser. Up, up, and she runs again, following the disarmingly fast man in front of her.
Heavy caliber rifle fire bathes the street behind them. More screams, more shooting, then a lull. Above them, rockets streak across the shining moon and the night light polluted, crashing into the taller skyscrapers, blasting the infrastructure and showering the city in a new kind of aura.
"???????, ???????, ?????."
Funny, it sounded like someone yelling, "Grenade, use grenades, Idiot."
Fragmentation grenades cast shrapnel and dull thumps in the streets behind and in front of them. Then another voice booms out: thick, touched with strength and amusement.
"??, ????! Hahaha! Cry to ma-maa!"
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Post by Deleted on Jun 17, 2013 10:43:33 GMT -8
This is bad. After you hear a frag grenade go off once, it's impossible to mistake it for anything else. That dull thud that rattles the ribcage, the countless pings of shrapnel bouncing off any hard surface. Gunfire to the front, gunfire to the rear, we're not making it out of this alley just yet. I skid to a stop, and having never regained the presence of mind to let go of Marilyn's jacket, presumably she stops as well.
God I hate sprinting. My lungs are burning, both from the smoke and the exertion. There are a various bits of detritus lying around. I duck between a row of trashcans and a stack of wood pallets. Shitty cover, but decent concealment.
"Jesus fucking Christ. Are you hurt?"
The sounds of gunfire on the street grow closer to the mouth of the alley, and then pass. Apparently, whoever these guys are, they aren't out to be tactical. This is wholesale slaughter. The screams of the wounded and the dying are audible over the unmistakable clatter of Kalashnikovs on automatic. I rummage around in my pockets with a free hand, and pull out a couple of sets of ear plugs. The duster has pockets for days, and whenever I'm headed somewhere new, I try to load them with useful things. Earplugs, a small folding knife, matches, a length of piano wire for a garrote, that sort of stuff. I offer Marilyn a set.
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Jun 18, 2013 7:05:39 GMT -8
Hurt? No. How could she truly feel pain right now. Machine gun rounds could rip her eyes to shreds, bayonets could lacerate her liver into uneven pieces, even her brain could be mashed and tossed like red oatmeal under the repeated smacks from a spade: she couldn't care. All she knew in her core was the numbness, the detachment from reality. There was nothing, only silly shapes and figures. There were wonders, sounds of AN-94s doing their little two round bursts, slicing apart America's next top model. Even the pain in her arm was just an abstract, another level to the waking nightmare, relentless happiness in the form of brass casing jinglejanglebangling on asphalt. Yet there she was, heart pounding like a bass drum from Hell, eyes wide and darting, and adrenline giving her body an overload of hyper-attentiveness to this most life-like of Walpurgisnacht representations.
That's what this was, right? Soon the witches would come, and the devils, the scholars, Kafka, Regan, Liberache, Rommel, Mozart, Budda, Judas, and even that guy who invented the wheel. No doubt everybody was going to say their peace, and talk about how the essence of troops slaughtering civilians was the essence of life and idea-exchange.
Wilson too. Wilson would have to know of something. He would have an opinion, no doubt backed up with that old man wit that he was somehow capable of at such a young age.
Wilson? Oh right, the guy handing Marilyn ear plugs.
Oh, how smart! That way all the fucking death around them wouldn't leave them deaf.
"Nnn-no. Not hurt."
She takes the plugs and puts them in place with a great deal of double takes and shaking.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 18, 2013 7:35:14 GMT -8
"Good, good shit."
Deep breaths. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no emotion, there is peace. I'm still high on adrenaline, but slowly my heart rate starts to drop, the mindless fog of panic clears. Putting down Jedi as my religion might've gotten a few laughs from a few folks, but the practical applications cannot be overstated.
My pipe, somehow, miraculously, is still in my left hand. Given the amount of smoke and fire around here, it's not likely that anyone will notice a bit more, so I pull out a box of matches and light up. Once that's done, I offer Marilyn a smoke from the crumpled pack of Marlboros I keep on hand.
"Here. It'll help with the nerves. Listen, Marilyn, I need you cool, ok? I think I can get us out of here, but if you're not cool they're going to gun us down like dogs. I aim to make these bastards pay, but we need to get to my Jeep first, ok?"
If she had been one of my guys, a firm hand on the shoulder and a steady look in the eyes would have been called for. Let them know you're calm, you're ready. But she's not, and I don't know exactly how she's handling the situation. Probably still numb, but I don't want to pull back a nub. I settle with the steady look, hazel ringed with green into her blue.
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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If blood is the currency of life, then what's its tax collection service?
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Jun 18, 2013 8:15:57 GMT -8
What was that? Be cool? Calm down? Sure, while smelling blood in the air, imagining thousands of people laying in every possible shape and posture. He wanted her to be cool? Oh, right. They didn't need her running up to the nearest patrol, grinning, while tossing a pile of guts at them. Things like that would get her killed. Ha. Killed. She felt so insignificant. What did it matter if one little piece of dust died in this mass murder hysteria?
Still, dying now would make things seem incomplete. Wilson spoke of vengeance. Vengeance was an interesting concept, if only because she wasn't sure of what she was avenging and upon whom. No. She should try to survive. To fight. Quite frankly, she did not know how though. Almost anything Marilyn could think of was death, death of them, death of all, death of herself.
Very well then: we will rely on the not so strange stranger to offer a path. In any case, he offered cigarettes, and that was a start.
The young woman pulls out a metal zippo lighter, quick thumbs the light on, and lights her badly crumpled smoke. She takes a long drag, enough that you could count seconds, so long that a fourth of a cigarette falls off as ash and stains her thighs. Her eyes close, she remains still, so still, until her colorless cheeks begin to turn rosy, and then exhales.
"Yu-yes. I'm with you. . . Sir." She says while returning his stare, her irises warbling while his were steadfast.
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Jun 18, 2013 8:52:39 GMT -8
"Don't call me Sir, I work for a living."
The response is automatic, built in from years as serving as lower enlisted. We don't like officers very much. The acrid stench of the burning cars and the sickly sweet smells of burning flesh intermingle with the blood and the tobacco smoke. My stomach heaves, but I manage to keep the beer from earlier down. Lord only knows the mess I'd be without a pint or two in my system.
My hand once again reaches for the spot where my Colt should be. Goddamn city with its ridiculous fucking gun laws.
"Alright. Stay close. I'm going to check to see if the coast is clear. If I say get down, get the fuck down. If I say take cover, get behind something solid. Cars don't count. Ready?"
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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If blood is the currency of life, then what's its tax collection service?
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Jun 18, 2013 15:02:16 GMT -8
Marilyn would have chuckled, because the joke was an obvious one, and one of the little things from a soldier's life that actually transported and made itself a meme of sorts. Laughter would had been nice, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out, and instant it looked like he was witnessing a dry heave -complete while a low gargle.
Another wave of rockets punctuates the air and makes their presence known with sharp whistles as they careened into all sorts of higher targets. Now fires begin to spread in some of taller skyscrapers -never mind the fires that were growing down at street level. Fire. Fire was probably burning Isaac's corpse as she gaped stupidly at Wilson. . .
She takes another pull, crushes the remainder against the brick wall behind her, and tosses the butt. Those shaking nerves seemed to be abating. In a low voice, now more aware of how dangerous the prospect escape was, she whispers.
"Okay. Okay. Following orders -just like the army. Okay. Okay. I'll do what you say. No question. No hesitation. . . .
. . . I hope. . .
Alright. I'm ready. . ."
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