Ma-tek
27-12-2003, 19:25
Four Years Ago - Before Dawn Year 3
Agrid charged through the street, dodging bullets as he ran. Of course, 'dodging' in this case was a rather unusual concept; he didn't so much dodge as - metaphorically - cross his fingers and hope.
It was working, though. He heard rather than saw the thudding crunch as bullets rammed into the thick wall to his right; he saw and heard the smash as glass ripped asunder; and he felt the rip at his flak jacket as a bullet embedded in the material. As he ran, he felt warmth at his waist...
Had he been hit?
A few seconds of internalized checking made him certain that he had been - but that the bullet was lodged in the flak jacket, with the tip rubbing against exposed skin beneath.
That was not comforting in the least.
Agrid leapt rather than ran through the door that opened; a door, a haven, a hopeful entrance - or an exit from the nightmare that had erupted on the street behind him. Blood ran freely along the street, now; blood that had no right being there. Blood belonged in veins; blood belonged in donor bags, on racks in clean and crisply white hospital rooms; blood did not belong on the cold dank streets of Turath. It was a simple fact.
His wand pressed against his third-right rib, an exclamation of fear without words; a weapon of devastating power...
...useless.
He pressed against the wall inside the damp building in which he had taken refuge, breathing hard. Sucking in the warm, wet air of a building too long left without maintanence; chest rising and falling in a slow, sweaty ryhthm, a wordless warning of exertion rising from his chest in the form of a dull thumping in his throat as his heart pounded against his sternum, and his veins rattled with hot fluid flushing throughout. Blood in its rightful place, thank the Stars.
It took him a few moments to realise that a face was several inches from his own.
It could have been the warmth of the breath on his face, or the dim amber glow of the semi-reflective retina-backed compound eyes that gazed into his; it could have been the moving lips, the sound of words reaching him through a thick haze of resounding gunfire reverberating through his skull...
Whatever it was, he finally took note.
"...boy, you sure pissed them off!"
He stared at the youthful face before him, dumbfounded at the lack of care or fear in the tone. He did not speak; words failed him, and he wasn't sure if his voice would be clear and steady just yet anyway...
"What, they cut out your tongue, boy? Or you deaf?"
His lips moved, but no words passed beyond the velvet confines of flushed cheeks.
"You better not be dangerous, or I'm a goner, eh," the voice continued, as it waved a hand in his face, before pointing out 'back'. It had to be 'back', because 'out' was forwards. The face vanished, replaced by a cool light washing over frightened and paranoid eyes; blinking away the fear proved more difficult than he would have thought - he was...
Agrid. He was Agrid. He reached down, found his centre, drew out the rage that threatened to boil over and scald everything that he was and had been...
And calming breath was sucked in, cooling the rage, denying the fear. It was a shocking sensation, a rabid pressure in his chest that threatened to overwhelm him; it passed quickly, subsiding into a gentle sensation, like salt tears dropping into a bowl of blood. The smell of iron, the fear, remains - but the overpowering nature of the stench is relieved by the salty smell of despair released.
His echoing footsteps sounding behind him in a surreal counterpoint to the shouts outside - sounds apparently delayed by the thudding pain in his skull - Agrid followed the feminine face that knew no fear, out into the 'back'.
And when his forehead met the jagged flatness of the plank of wood, the darkness that descended was almost mercifully calm and silent...
Agrid charged through the street, dodging bullets as he ran. Of course, 'dodging' in this case was a rather unusual concept; he didn't so much dodge as - metaphorically - cross his fingers and hope.
It was working, though. He heard rather than saw the thudding crunch as bullets rammed into the thick wall to his right; he saw and heard the smash as glass ripped asunder; and he felt the rip at his flak jacket as a bullet embedded in the material. As he ran, he felt warmth at his waist...
Had he been hit?
A few seconds of internalized checking made him certain that he had been - but that the bullet was lodged in the flak jacket, with the tip rubbing against exposed skin beneath.
That was not comforting in the least.
Agrid leapt rather than ran through the door that opened; a door, a haven, a hopeful entrance - or an exit from the nightmare that had erupted on the street behind him. Blood ran freely along the street, now; blood that had no right being there. Blood belonged in veins; blood belonged in donor bags, on racks in clean and crisply white hospital rooms; blood did not belong on the cold dank streets of Turath. It was a simple fact.
His wand pressed against his third-right rib, an exclamation of fear without words; a weapon of devastating power...
...useless.
He pressed against the wall inside the damp building in which he had taken refuge, breathing hard. Sucking in the warm, wet air of a building too long left without maintanence; chest rising and falling in a slow, sweaty ryhthm, a wordless warning of exertion rising from his chest in the form of a dull thumping in his throat as his heart pounded against his sternum, and his veins rattled with hot fluid flushing throughout. Blood in its rightful place, thank the Stars.
It took him a few moments to realise that a face was several inches from his own.
It could have been the warmth of the breath on his face, or the dim amber glow of the semi-reflective retina-backed compound eyes that gazed into his; it could have been the moving lips, the sound of words reaching him through a thick haze of resounding gunfire reverberating through his skull...
Whatever it was, he finally took note.
"...boy, you sure pissed them off!"
He stared at the youthful face before him, dumbfounded at the lack of care or fear in the tone. He did not speak; words failed him, and he wasn't sure if his voice would be clear and steady just yet anyway...
"What, they cut out your tongue, boy? Or you deaf?"
His lips moved, but no words passed beyond the velvet confines of flushed cheeks.
"You better not be dangerous, or I'm a goner, eh," the voice continued, as it waved a hand in his face, before pointing out 'back'. It had to be 'back', because 'out' was forwards. The face vanished, replaced by a cool light washing over frightened and paranoid eyes; blinking away the fear proved more difficult than he would have thought - he was...
Agrid. He was Agrid. He reached down, found his centre, drew out the rage that threatened to boil over and scald everything that he was and had been...
And calming breath was sucked in, cooling the rage, denying the fear. It was a shocking sensation, a rabid pressure in his chest that threatened to overwhelm him; it passed quickly, subsiding into a gentle sensation, like salt tears dropping into a bowl of blood. The smell of iron, the fear, remains - but the overpowering nature of the stench is relieved by the salty smell of despair released.
His echoing footsteps sounding behind him in a surreal counterpoint to the shouts outside - sounds apparently delayed by the thudding pain in his skull - Agrid followed the feminine face that knew no fear, out into the 'back'.
And when his forehead met the jagged flatness of the plank of wood, the darkness that descended was almost mercifully calm and silent...