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 Posted: Fri Dec 05, 2014 10:47 am
In a heartbeat the knife was in his hand again, with the giddy and horrible thought that maybe it wouldn't work properly against creatures like these, that maybe, right now, it was just a knife. Moving too fast to consider the fact that he was dripping and shivering, he made a desperate, only half-thought-out grab for the nearest figure, a whip-quick movement of his arms to try and get her pinned into hostage mode, even though it looked very much like America already had the hostage they truly wanted. It didn't matter. It wasn't a strategic decision. It was born entirely and completely out of raw pain, a seething, thoughtless need for revenge.
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Posted: Fri Dec 05, 2014 12:11 pm
Dew, the fair one, didn't fight back, her attention was still on America, still on the bell. She burned to the touch and soon his heart was beating hard in his chest and he was hit with a heady burst of happy anticipation. The other however, gazed at Taym with wide, fearful eyes that flicked down to the weapon in unhappy speculation. "Just give us the bell and we'll go." Her voice was low and thick with emotion, "We don't wish to fight you." With a small huff of laughter, America countered, "Yeah, you just wanted us to peacefully die with smiles on our faces while you leeched every bit of happiness and life out of us!" "We weren't taking your lives!" "BUT WE'RE DYING ANYWAY!" She was still too pale, still washed out, and something was different about her face. Her eyes seemed duller, and the set of it seemed incapable of holding a smile. Distantly, Stryker was yelling at her to just break it already, destroy the contract. But there was the little room, and it still wasn't too late. There was going home mission complete, but what did that life hold beyond a painful future where despite all efforts, she died alone?
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Posted: Fri Dec 05, 2014 12:34 pm
It took effort, but he managed to pry himself off of Dew--one arm hanging onto her now like she was a crutch more than a hostage as he swooned in the wake of pleasure. Maybe, he thought, dim and cynical, he was better at fighting this than America because he was so unused to it. Somewhere from very far away Fiona made an incredulous sound, and it was this--her single shred of sarcastic wordless commentary--that pushed words into his mouth. He was looking at America with sudden weary purpose, with that particularly grim and exhausted set of his face that meant that he'd zeroed in on an unpleasant but necessary goal and would hang onto it no matter how much it hurt, one hand aiming the knife at Dew ("I'm sorry," he told her, "I'm so ******** sorry," and he sounded like he meant it, like he might cry for it) and the other clutching his chest as though he could physically still the racing of his heart. "Please," he said, not sure why it was these words, specifically, "please take it back from them. Please don't make me go back alone, Meri."
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Posted: Fri Dec 05, 2014 12:44 pm
Rocking, she made a small noise. She'd left for him, hadn't she? Because she knew him, more than her little boy, she knew him and she loved him in ways that would eventually leave a terrible hold in her life and it was so, so important to make sure it was worth it. And this... wasn't.Cinna screamed as America tensed and a heartbeat later the bell was smashing against the wall, the sound of it's last ring filling and shaking the house. Color began to return to every human in the room and drain out of the two creatures, even as the house started to collapse around them. In the tubs, the sleepers stirred and then awoke gasping as shocked confusion turned to panic. With a wary glance at the Cinna, America was at Ida's side first, pulling one arm over her shoulder to help the tall woman up and lead her out of the house. The creature made no move to stop them, she too was now sobbing, her cries intensifying as Dew joined her.
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Posted: Fri Dec 05, 2014 1:47 pm
This is your job, he thought. This is your job. This is why you're here. But he was watching Cinna and Dew with grief and fascination, and just as America was helping Ida up, while the others were confused and distracted, he couldn't help but turn to them again, the knife winking out. "I'm so ******** sorry," he said again, barely audible over the sudden chaos. "But it's not something you can have at someone else's expense. I'm sorry." And then he was moving, his attention snapped to the task at hand, to the triage of the waking victims, determining who most needed help, lending a sturdy shoulder, barking an order at the ones who seemed most capable of independent action. It was just work, now. Just work, thank god.
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