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screaming-skvll · 2 years

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The Fall of the House of Spider

XV. The Surprise XVI. The Hunt

Mardin went invisible and stepped through the transmat first, a primed smoke charge clutched in hand. He threw it as soon as he materialized on the other pad, shrouding four unsuspecting vandal guards in a thick black cloud. With the thwack of his bowstring, lighting from the Trinity Ghoul disintegrated all four before any of them could so much as shout, never mind sound an alarm.

Radiant stomped through transmat a moment later, both guns pointed forward. Xie paused momentarily, gave the Hunter a nod, and the pair cautiously approached the broad, arched hatchway of the room's only exit.

Holding his hand over the button to open the door, Mardin counted down from three in a low voice over their comm line. As he triggered the hatch and stepped back to draw his next arrow, Radiant planted xirself in the doorway and leveled xir guns down the corridor—but it was empty. The Guardians looked at each other, then stepped into the hallway.

"Where is everybody?" Radiant asked.

"Dunno. We knew Spider didn't have many guys left. Ghost, where we going?"

The Hunter's Ghost chirped in acknowledgement. "Avrok was kind enough to furnish us with a map. I'll mark the route to Spider's chambers." A diagram of the palace appeared in both Guardians' HUDs, a bright line tracing through to a cluster of compartments deep in the center of the complex.

"That. What's that?" Mardin asked immediately.

"What?" Radiant said.

"That big room there, toward the end of the route. That looks like an arena or something."

"Avrok's map isn't labeled," the Ghost said. "It could be anything."

Mardin shook his head. "It looks like trouble. Big empty rooms are always trouble."

The Titan shrugged. "We'll deal with it when we get there."

A dreg came around the corner from a connecting corridor and stopped stark still, staring at the two Guardians with weapons raised. The dreg croaked and dropped his shock rifle, then kicked it away with a clatter before dashing out of sight.

"Is that a good sign or a bad sign?" Radiant wondered aloud.

"Not good if he goes and warns whoever else is still here," Mardin grumbled.

They followed the route marked on their map carefully but quickly. For the first half of the way, they elected to keep quiet, ducking into shadows to hide or slipping into side rooms to avoid the small number of Spider's associates lurking around the mostly empty palace halls. About when they reached the midpoint of the route, all the regular lights cut out and dim, purplish emergency lighting flickered on. At the same time, they heard a resounding series of clicks as every hatchway around them locked.

"Huh," Radiant mused.

Mardin had instinctively dropped into a crouch. He slowly stood back up. "Spider must've noticed his yacht is missing, which means he's probably sending everybody he has left this way to—"

Radiant was already lobbing a pulse grenade down the hallway. It stuck to the ceiling in the next corridor junction at about the same moment a crew of tired-looking but well-armed Eliksni came through one of the hatches at the intersection. The crackling grenade sent most of them flying, but Radiant followed up with a casual spray from xir auto rifle. After the bark of the rifle's report stopped echoing, the corridor was quiet again.

Then a series of utility panels all along the hallway slid open all at once, and a swarm of shanks emerged from behind the walls.

"Lovely. Backup defenses," the Hunter observed.

"No fucking shit" the Titan yelled, letting loose with both guns. The steady, repeating boom of xir machine gun drowned out the patter of the smaller auto rifle. Shanks burst apart down the length of the corridor as Radiant's lines of fire swept back and forth, but more took their place, continuing to pour forth from the walls and from around corners along the hallway.

Mardin stood behind Radiant and to one side, out of the way of the streams of hot cartridge casings spouting from xir rapid-fire weapons. He concentrated his shots at the corners along the corridor, each full draw clearing a clump of a dozen or so shanks in a single sparking flash where his lightning arrows fell.

The Guardians gradually began pressing forward, even as the tide of shanks continued rushing against them. Mardin turned and loosed his splitting arrows back down the corridor behind them, evaporating the shanks that began following them before they could close to an effective firing distance. Radiant kept xir guns trained forward and blazing constantly, stopping only to reload one weapon with one pair of arms while still firing the other. After the first few steps, xir armored boots crunched through a layer of casing fragments and shank parts like a crust of autumn leaves in frost.

It took long minutes to fight their way to the end of the hallway, where their map indicated they had to take a lift down. Radiant paused momentarily, held out a hand to summon xir Ghost, and shouted "Door!" before resuming xir barrage. Spinning its shell, the Titan's Ghost swooped to the locked lift airlock and hurriedly began probing it with sweeping beams of Light.

Finding his quiver empty, Mardin went down on one knee, set his bow on the deck, and drew his sidearm. As he threw a vortex grenade to temporarily block off the line of approach to his right, he growled "Ghost, arrows," then took aim down the corridor and began methodically shooting down the oncoming shanks one at a time. His Ghost sheltered behind him, frantically rendering shank debris to combine with stored glimmer and compile into new arrows.

Radiant's last drum for the large-caliber machine gun ran out, but xie kept reloading the smaller rifle as the auto-loading rig in xir armor refreshed xir depleted magazines. Mardin switched between emptying his Corsair's pistol and loosing a few volleys from the Trinity Ghoul as his Ghost struggled to keep up producing ammo for the alternating weapons. The incoming fire from the shanks peppered the two Guardians more and more heavily as they slowly pressed closer.

"Ghooooost?!" Radiant inquired, the note from xir voice modulator rising in both volume and aggravation.

"I'm working on it," xir Ghost chattered, "but this is really more complex than the typical Eliksni door lock!"

"Ugh, fuck this," Radiant yelled. Ceasing fire, xie drew all four arms in against xir chest, and for a single still moment felt the bright warmth of the Light rising within. Stepping into a wide horse stance, the Titan threw xir arms outward and cast a Ward of Dawn around the doorway, enveloping both Guardians and their Ghosts. Behind the wall of the Ward's shimmering membrane, it was suddenly almost silent.

#fall of the house of spider #destiny the game #destiny 2 #destiny fanfiction

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mulderist · 3 years

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Wicked Game

Previous chapters // read on A03

Washington, D.C - 1948. Fox Mulder is a detective on the top vice unit; scandal, corruption, and lies come with the territory. He is forced to investigate a fellow officer and finds the lies go much deeper than the truth.

tagging @today-in-fic

CHAPTER 6

Navy Yard Washington, D.C. 10:13 p.m.

The Navy Yard sits on an unappealing southeast corner of the city pressed up against a polluted strip of the Potomac. It was used for ship maintenance and ammunition manufacturing during the war and continued for a little while after. The surrounding warehouses and docks became defunct once the war effort projects dried up. The shipyard devolved into a revolving door for small-time criminals which begat large-time mobsters. Security was usually an older night watchman who was past his prime and easy to track. Smaller boats would pull up and drop off cargo whenever they could. Deals were quick and dirty. Soon, respectable businesses in the southeast east district wanted a piece and formed a “two ships passing” style agreement. I suppose it saved them from having their goods sent to Anacostia or down towards Virginia.

A flash of lightning brightened up a cluster of clouds. A rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. Fortunately, I had arrived and got into position just prior to the downpour. I sat on a dirt driveway off the access road, which was quickly becoming a muddy river. There was a canal to my left at the nine o’clock position, the Potomac dead ahead at my twelve, and the edge of a warehouse was at my three o’clock. The rain sounded like I had parked my Pontiac under Niagara Falls. Water pounded against the roof, rushed down the windshield in sheets of grey making the wiper blades useless. The water-logged Buddy Rich solo played on against the car and I had a feeling my view was not going to clear up anytime soon.

I fidgeted with a sunflower seed I pulled from the half-empty bag on my dashboard. Ideally I would toss the shells out the window but given the weather and trying to keep a low profile, there was an unsalted graveyard on the floor of the sedan. I cracked the shell with my teeth and added it to the discarded brethren. The seed danced around my tongue and I turned my wrist trying to make out the time on my watch. The minute hand eased a tick past the quarter hour. I then picked up the radio and connected with the precinct dispatch.

“This is Detective Mulder, over.”

Static. Click. Click.

I pressed the button again on the comm as I leaned over and grabbed my hat.

“This is Detective Mulder, do you copy? Over.”

“Evening detective, this is Officer Stanz. Always nice hearing your voice in the dead of the night.”

“You too, sweetheart.”

“So Mulder, what’s your status?”

“Waiting for this storm to strip the paint off my car,” I replied as I ran a hand over my face. “Visibility is shit sitting here in the driver’s seat. Regrettably, I think I’ll have to go on foot. Over.”

“Copy that,” she said, “Hopefully you won’t need to build an ark.”

“Honey, I’d rather swim for it. Over and out.”

I placed my hat on my head, pocketed the small binoculars that were resting on the seat next to me, and opened the car door into the deluge. The rain sounded different as it slapped against the water in the canal, rang against the scrap metal, and beat against the dock. I dashed towards a scrap pile and crouched down amongst rusted metal and what I hoped were empty oil drums. If there was a gunfight I didn’t want to go up like a Roman candle. I peered over an oil drum and got eyes on the warehouse through the binoculars.

The info Krycek had provided Skinner said three was the magic number; Vincenti favored odds over evens. Guess I know how he’d play the roulette wheel at the casino. I saw a worn metal sign tacked to the side of the building letting me know I was in the right place. There was a dim light piercing through a shadow on the dock so somebody was home. Suddenly, headlights came down the other end of the access road and I got out of sight. The car went dark and I counted to ten then shifted my position. Rain poured off the brim of my hat, dripped down my neck so I flipped up the collar; glad I chose the dark grey trench coat. The new vehicle slowly crept closer to the front of the warehouse and idled. Once the hood touched the dim light source I knew it looked familiar; the distinct yellow paint job of a D.C. cab. I squinted and tried to memorize the plate number through spikes of rain. The passenger door opened flashing the checkered pattern on the side panel. A figure stepped out and rounded the front of the car then paused at the driver’s side before heading into the warehouse. Just then, a headlight shone on the river. I listened to the putter of the engine as it pulled up to the edge of the dock. Once the engine was cut I watched through the binoculars and saw one of the goons wave as the boat approached the dock. It was the same goon who was with Lodi at the restaurant. He approached the boat as they cut off the light. My grip switched and my eyes strained.

The D.C.cab was still idling along with the boat at the dock. I kept to the shadows. I could feel moisture collect at my mid back from an adrenaline surge. That all too familiar feeling. Suddenly as a thunder clap sounded, I had a flashback to a sunrise mission on Wake Island: Rain made my hands very slick on the Carbine as I tried to ready my aim. Bullets whizzed around me. The mud was so thick. An explosion went off nearby, my ear was ringing. My sergeant was yelling commands. I held my breath for three counts and pulled the trigger, a bright spray of red marked where I hit a Japanese soldier square in the throat. First time I successfully made that shot. Confirmed kill.

I closed my eyes and dug my nails into the palm of my hand, one pain replaced another and the memory faded. My breath was short but steady. I needed to focus. If the goon was there, Lodi was surely lurking somewhere inside. I just needed to get eyes on him. The backside of the building seemed like a safer option and I pressed against the rotting wood as I moved around to a shabby staircase. A quick glance up and I climbed towards the single door. The steps were slippery and I was waiting for my foot to punch through a soft spot in the warped planks. At the landing I readied my gun and turned the knob, slowly opening the unlocked door. The upper level looked clear. It was a nice respite from the storm. I held my position and holstered my weapon. My trenchcoat felt like it took on about twenty pounds of rainwater and I would have enjoyed shaking off like a wet shaggy dog. Drips from the edge of my coat marked my hiding spot like an X on a treasure map. Luckily I didn’t need my binoculars from my perch because, as if on cue, Carlo Lodi’s hulking frame lumbered across the floor.

He blew a puff of smoke from a dying cigarette. His goon handed over a white package which Lodi bounced in his hand with approval. He gave a wave and a couple of men filed out of the warehouse and approached the boat. I could just barely make out the edge of it bobbing at the side of the dock. The lackeys quickly transferred packages from the boat to the trunk of the idling taxi. I adjusted my stance and craned my neck. The cab had a picture of the Capitol dome and what looked like the word ‘Speedy.’ They were using the taxi company to move the heroin. I heard the boat engine rev and pull away from the dock. One of the men approached the driver’s side door of the cab and pulled the driver out. He pushed the confused cabbie away from his vehicle. Then the man swiftly plunged a knife in the cabbie’s side, repeating the motion until the poor driver went limp. He was then dropped in the Potomac like yesterday’s garbage. The goon took his place behind the wheel and I knew I needed to get back outside to tail him.

I saw the headlights from the commandeered taxi so I was careful not to be spotted. I couldn’t tell which direction he was going to pull off so I waited behind a different wood and scrap pile. The chug of the engine caught my attention. The lights appeared to be moving backwards and when they were far enough, I made a break for my car. Inside via the passenger door I fished out my key and started the engine then grabbed the radio comm.

“This is Mulder, does anyone read?”

I backed up on the access road and spun the wheel in the right direction. That sweet voice came through my radio once again.

“This is Stanz. Over.”

“I got eyes on Lodi. Shipment confirmed at Dock 3 at the Navy Yard, get anyone from the Southeast Division who isn’t asleep down here now. Beat cops, vice, narco, I’ll take whatever I can get. Take caution, he isn’t alone.”

I pressed the gas a little harder keeping textbook distance as I locked onto the cab. I clicked the comm again.

“I’m in pursuit of an accomplice heading west on Waterfront Dr. It’s a taxi, plate number: TK-0421. Speedy Capitol Cab Company. Over”

“Roger that. I’ll relay to Captain Skinner. Over and out.”

I tapped the break as I pulled around a corner and turned up Patterson Ave. then on to M Street. The cab slowed to stop at a red light a block ahead of me. Mighty nice of him to use a turn signal. He switched lanes and merged onto New Jersey Ave. angling towards Capitol Hill. The street cut a sharp diagonal and the famed white dome came into view. I heard my radio crackle but ignored it. My eyes felt like I had rubbed them with sandpaper, I hated to blink for fear of losing my target. I was dangerously tired, a second wind was long overdue.

Street lights and neon bounced against puddles in the street. The rain had slacked off to the point where it was an annoying stubborn mist that couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to stop or go full tilt. I had cracked my window and listened to the rush of tires on slick pavement, splashing in potholes and against manhole covers.

The cab turned right onto Independence Ave. I tailed a little closer than protocol distance, keeping only one car between us. I missed the signal change and watched my target turn left on First St. Impatiently I waited for the signal, hoping I hadn’t lost them. After I made the turn I slowed down and searched for the taxi. I spotted it parked in front of the Library of Congress, parked like he was picking up a fare. There was a man standing on the curb holding an umbrella. I performed a u-turn maneuver and pulled into an empty parallel space, threw the gear shift into park and advanced on the suspect.

“DCPD!” I yelled as I approached the driver’s side door with my badge and gun drawn. The driver calmly rolled down the window and lifted a meaty hand from the wheel. A thick signet ring on his pinky finger looked like butcher’s twine around a sausage link.

“No, keep ‘em on the wheel! Don’t move.”

He smirked and obliged. I held my gun on him and glanced in the backseat; a red ember glowed from the tip of a freshly lit cigarette.

“Is there something we can do for you, detective?”

That voice. That distinctive snake hiss I couldn’t forget; it slowly coiled around like a wisp of smoke. The smoking man. Spender’s father.

“Fancy meeting you here. Looks like you chose the wrong taxi tonight.”

“On the contrary detective, it’s you who chose poorly.”

“Yeah I have a knack for doing that,” I retorted, fingers gripping the handle of my gun, “Alright, you — out of the car. Hands where I can see them.” I pulled the door open and took a step back, letting the goon out. I made him turn to face the car, hands atop the roof. The smoking man leaned forward from the backseat, cigarette tucked between his lips.

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Hey! You are next on my list.” I shouted then continued frisking the goon, finding a small handgun and a switchblade. I stuffed them into my trench coat pocket.

“Careful, you’re gonna make me stiff,” he said with a laugh as I patted his legs down to the ankle, finding another blade in a clever holster. I pulled out my handcuffs and clasped his wrists behind his back. I pushed my gun in between his shoulder blades, directing him toward the rear of the taxi and told him to open the trunk. I felt the heat from the exhaust pipe blowing against my pant leg, creating a small dry patch on an otherwise drenched pair of trousers. The goon shook his head and flipped the latch. The trunk appeared empty.

“Alright where is it?” I asked,

“Where’s what?”

“The package. The white package.”

“Ain’t no package here.”

I leaned in and felt around, searching for a latch or tab or something that would indicate a hidden compartment. As my free hand finally found what it was looking for, my occupied hand dug the tip of the standard issue deeper into a lesser known pressure point in the goon’s back. The pulled a section of fabric loose, revealing a hidden compartment that was packed full of white packages.

Sirens wailed in the distance. I tossed the goon in the back of my car, adjusting his handcuffs so there was no funny business, then radioed in my location. The smoking man approached under the cover of his umbrella.

“I could have your badge for this, detective.��

“You can try.”

“This small incident won’t change anything.”

“Just keep telling yourself that. I have officers from every direction to bust up the little party at the Navy Yard. This is the tip of the iceberg and I’m willing to go all the way to the core.”

We stood silent, listening to the approaching sirens. The rain had finally stopped but the percussive sound of drips could still be heard in the surrounding trees. A plume of smoke wafted in the air. He was about to say something to me but a squad car had arrived coming to a stop in the middle of the street. Two unis got out with guns drawn.

“I’m taking my suspect back to the 3rd,” I called out, “You boys can take this one for a ride.”

#i wrote this #historical au #xf fanfic #mulder pov #i finally posted it #hopefully it still has readers lol #i'm trying y'all

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witchamania · 5 years

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She’s just going to... forget... to mention that she may or may not be dabbling in her own ideas using herself as the initial test subject. Might as well, she’s got plenty of experience in that department anyways.

#musevarietate #dash comm. |✘| Recon Rerouted #Rekka |✘| Through Ink Revealed #verse |✘| In Shadows They Lurk { supernatural }

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lenalee-academy · 4 years

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Shadow of Despair

Fandom: Avengers

Count: 3471

Warnings: Graphic Whump / ANGST

Rating: M (for whump and language)

Summary: What if despair had a name and liked to eat your nightmares for breakfast? The Avengers are out on a routine mission when despair comes calling, and it sets its sight on our favorite genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. As the team rallies to rescue their friend, they are brought face to face with the fact that they don’t really know Tony at all.

PROLOGUE

"There's a new world comin', and it's just around the bend. There's a new world comin', this one's comin' to an end." - Cass Elliot

Iilk was hungry.

As one of the lesser Rake he didn't often have the opportunity for a meal.

Scraps.

That's what was left for him by the time the others cleared out. That's why he was lurking in the shadows, watching the Elders split dimensions. It had taken him quite a while to learn that the key was timing. While the Elders did the work of opening dimensions he bided his time and energy. If he was fast enough there was a chance he could pass through the opening before the others could swarm it.

He'd probably only get a few good tastes before he was pulled away by a stronger, more aged Rake, but that was okay. Even just a few sips of the good stuff would be able to keep Iilk energized enough to vie for a decent place in line instead of dead last.

As the rift grew longer he focused his attention on the tear, counting down the seconds until it showed the smallest opening, and then he dashed through the hole that was too small for the strongest Rake to fit in, but just wide enough for the starved Iilk to slip through.

His success was short lived as he careened through a time lord who looked surprised and rather angry before doing something that began to reverse the rift Iilk had come through, much to the surprised and angry cries of his people on the other side.

"Wong." The time lord hissed, his focus unable to split between the rogue Rake and closing the rift.

"Got it." This Wong stated, hands moving ominacly. But Iilk didn't wait to find out what that meant for him. He hurled himself in the direction of away, hearing the startled yell of the gatekeepers behind him and refusing to look back and see how close they were to catching up to him.

Slipping into shadows and spreading himself thin enough to dematerialize, he evaded them all, quickly navigating the in-between. Ahead was a doorway with another rift leading to a dim and desolate place. Iilk slipped silently through, using the cover of darkness to slink across the barren wasteland.

And even through his dire predicament of being chased by a time lord and the fear of being caught, there was also a growing wonder, and even joy, at the realization that he now had an entire world, a veritable banquet of uncontested entrees at his fingertips.

And Iilk was hungry.

Tony Stark was starving.

He supposed working four days straight in the workshop would do that. His stomach growled again, echoing loudly within his suit.

"Anything Stark?" came the Captain's inquiry like clockwork.

"Beta quadrant clear." he said, doing one last scan, verifying that his report was still correct. "Moving on to Charlie."

"Roger that."

He'd only been 'retired' for a few months and already he had missed this. The feeling of teamwork and purpose as they all worked towards a specific goal. Sure, technically he was still inactive and not authorized or even encouraged to do anything but the aerial scans they needed but still, it was nice.

"Hey guys, whaddya say we stop for a little curry after this?" he asked, circling back around the city towards the point of origin, where the disturbance was first logged on SHIELD's radar. "I'm feeling a bit peckish."

"Stark." The Captain warned.

"What? You don't like Indian?"

"I could go for some naan bread," Bruce chimed in from the research truck where he was currently collecting data on the anomaly and using Stark's scans to better pinpoint the current location of the disturbance. Whatever this thing was, it was proving evasive to say the least. "I know this great little spot in Kolkata."

"It's on." Tony agreed. "Gotta branch out sometime, Cap. You'll love it. Comes with a kick."

"Guys," came the Captain's voice, strained with annoyance. It only made Tony smile. Sometimes America's greatest hero was too easy.

"Mmmm," Stark hummed. "Just the thought of butter chicken is making my mouth water. Nat, Clint?"

"Gonna have to pass on this one Stark." Clint chimed in. "Last time I had curry I shit fire for a week."

Tony's mirth rang through the comms and was documented by the blip in altitude as he dropped a few inches.

"Guys can we focus please," came the clipped tones of the Captain. "Natasha, what have you learned from the village. Any more victims?"

"Negative. The three victims didn't have much in common. None of the individuals who've been affected have gotten worse in the last 24 hours, however there is one common denominator. All of the victims have been experiencing night and day terrors."

"Terrors? What, like nightmares?" Clint asked.

"That mean anything to you, Banner?" The Captain redirected.

"No, not yet, but I'll plug the data into the search matrix, see if I can find a pattern. If you could find out when and where the terrors started it would be helpful."

"On it."

The comms fell silent again as Tony began sweeping the next quadrant. His mind forgot his hunger as it strayed back to his current obsession, Peter Parker's suit. Originally there'd only been a few dozen web-shooting options that he'd planned to integrate into a suit for the spider kid he'd met a few weeks ago. It wasn't his fault that several hundred more options had come to him since then. He'd meant to at least cut them down, but then he wanted this suit to be the safest thing the kid ever wore, and everytime he eliminated one he would suddenly think of a scenario where only that option would save the kid's life.

In the end he ended up incorporating all of them, which meant the original tech intended for the suit was insufficient. The sheer amount of options required the processing ability of higher level thinking. And so Tony had spent the last four days creating another AI. The kid would need assistance growing into the suit. Some tutorials perhaps. Maybe just a couple of training wheels to get him started.

"FRIDAY, remind me to set up a training wheels protocol for the Spiderling." he instructed, eyes still scanning the incoming stream of data. Something was off in the topography he hadn't caught before.

"You got it, boss."

"And while you're at it enable the GPR will ya?"

"On it."

"Thanks darlin."

Tony pulled to a stop as he read the data, turning to rescan the area around him. His lips spread into a smirk as the anomaly he'd sensed blipped across his screen.

"Gotcha," he murmured. After pinpointing the most probable point of origin, he began to head towards it.

"Stark. You want to tell me why you're breaking formation?" The Captain asked.

"You bet your patriotic socks I do," he said happily. "Looks like our mystery guest might be utilizing the formidable facility underneath the city. Sending you the specs now, Brucey."

He landed on the outskirts of the city, his metal suit standing firm on the hard sand. Precision lasers cut a perfect circle through the dirt, and he smiled when the sands began pouring down before the large chuck in the middle fell through a hole with a loud thump a moment later.

"Knock, knock."

"Stark! Hold position. Wait for backup." Captain America ordered.

Tony thought about listening. He really did.

Read more here

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gyromitra-esculenta · 7 years

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Synchronicity 6 or 7 (I honestly lost count)

With guest appearances by Roadhog and THE Shrike. Otherwise, take your meds, yadda yadda yadda. And maybe Reaps.

(…)

Now a changing of the guard has begun

A kingdom that belies the internal

Is a prison of the mind that's infernal

And eternal is the lie turned plague

(…)

The time on the screen is now forty-five past ten as Jack huddles behind the counter and scrapes off the caked flaking blood from his nose, the itch unbearable. He lost a quarter of an hour. He should have taken the meds, the attacks, three if he remembers them, take time from him, and luckily he has not been found during this episode. He could go back and try to scrounge something from the remains of the crushed pills, but the idea has him almost giggling desperately.

Instead, he reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. This time he lights it and the smoke scratches his throat in a strangely familiar way, the nicotine dizziness and elation pass fast, leaving him shivering.

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it,” the Beast, amused, sits by him, the ever-present shadow of himself.

“I have no idea,” Jack shrugs. “I don’t smoke.”

“I guess you don’t,” the Beast purrs in contentment, fangs nipping at his neck dangerously. Jack puts the cigarette out on the floor. “Any plans, Sunshine?”

“Forward.” It grows quiet after that and he pulls himself up, muscles trembling with exertion as he grips the countertop to stabilize himself. First few steps are harder than they should be, stiff and painful, and Jack takes a deep breath before he pushes to the next room – a corridor really – which looks more like a maintenance area with fenced off pipes lining the wall, the hum of electrical machinery strangely discomforting.

Muffled sounds of shots fired and screams send his senses into a frenzy, his grip on the pistol grows strained as he creeps further, only to stop at the turn, his instinct trying to keep him back. But he cannot allow himself to stay and wait it all out, he has to survive and get out. The purpose that he does not understand spurs him to move and round the corner.

A nurse pummels on the reinforced glass trying to get his attention like he could do something – anything really – seconds before his face becomes a gore show of exit wounds splattered against the transparent surface and then, he slides down leaving bloody smears with bits of bone and white brain matter. Jack observes, the strangely empty feeling unfurling in his mind as if he were just standing beside himself. None are blameless here.

“Boss, you won’t believe whom I just run into.” The voice snaps his head to its source, eyes widening in recognition. Mako Rutledge. Surging panic stops him in place and he can’t breathe suddenly because there is a hand at his throat... “Fucking Morrison.”

“See, Sunshine? All our old friends,” the Beast hisses into his ear, the ghost of touch moves along his jaw and lips, thumb pressing hard to demand his urgent concentration, but he cannot breathe, cannot focus on anything other than the man on the other side of the bloodstained glass smirking at him knowingly.

“Yeah. I just might know how to cut him off,” Rutledge heads for the exit. “You want him rare or done?”

“Remember your training. You can still outrun him, Sunshine.” The Beast whispers and Jack unfreezes, the sudden jolt of his muscles almost hurting, a jump, each step. He takes off, dashing through the meandering corridors and crashing through fence gates.

Rutledge is big. Doesn’t care for collateral. Close quarters is his forte. In hand to hand, he is going to be severely disadvantaged. Jack needs to put distance between them and think up a plan to deal with the situation. To deal with the unexplainable fear churning in his gut at the mere sight of the man.

More so, he realizes, when the hot air almost dries up his throat and billowing smoke threatens to close up his airways, just past the first sealed doors. Because where Rutledge is, Fawkes and his personal brand of destruction are not far behind.

He rushes through the burning room, heat singing his hair. The next are has nothing to burn and Jack takes a big thankful gulp of air. The crack of the radio has him pushing against the wall when the display shows unknown caller id.

“Jack, you are going into an ambush,” the heavily modulated voice cuts in.

“Who the bloody fuck are you!? This is a secure channel…”

“Lena,” Jack asks and she grows quiet but her displeasure carries with an irritated click of a tongue. “Is Rutledge there?”

“He took a different path, to meet up with Lacroix, it seems,” the person on the other side answers after some consideration. “I don’t have the command frequency code.”

“Fawkes?”

“With Lacroix at the moment. The room you’re going into is the internal foyer of the right research facility. There is a guard desk on the left by the entrance. There are four boogies in at the moment, two on the left by the exit, two just in the front. Standard gear.”

“Do they have the video feed?” Jack checks the Seegert again, counting bullets, just to be sure.

“I cut them off.” So they do not know where anyone exactly is or how many of them are here, surviving so far. It’s him, Lena, and possibly still Winston. Others unaccounted for. They only know what path he is going to take. It’s something, at least.

“Roger that.”

Jack steadies himself, calming breaths slow, and reaches inside for that something that will not let him die, the Beast at his fingertips purring and taking over.

“Remember your training,” it murmurs when the doors crash open. The first two shots find their targets with terrifying accuracy but he does not stop and turns left, vaulting over the desk. The grenade passes him in the air and lands behind the counter where he was a scant second earlier.

The other of the two remaining enemies starts firing only now but his aim is low. Too low. Another two shots take care of the situation and then Jack falls flat to the ground. The explosion shakes the room and glass dividers shatter with the soundwave. Concussion grenade.

They were not trying to kill him, they were trying to incapacitate him. He doesn’t know if that thought eases him in any way as he scrambles up. But it is an advantage he will have to press.

“Glad to see you hadn’t rusted, Morrison.”

“Jack, you good?” Lena whispers as he takes the rifle clips off the bodies and reloads the one he has on his shoulder. He finds two more grenades.

“Positive. Replenished the arsenal.”

“Okay, who the bloody…”

“You can call me Shrike.” The voice on the other side stops her mid-sentence. “You’re in the clear for now, Jack. Left through the another hospital hub security area is your best bet to elevators and T.A.C. – there are three Blackwatch and a worker barricaded inside.”

He grunts in answer, the weight of the rifle in his hands now giving him some semblance of security.

“Shrike? You stop bollocking us right now, because…”

“Child,” the voice is more amused than angry. “The Shrike is based off me. Patching the lock.” The light by the keycard reader turns green and the strengthened door slides open.

“And you just so happen to know Jack, bloody brilliant if you expect me to believe this to boot…”

“I don’t know him, girl. I used to.”

“Jack, luv?”

“I have no idea, but she is helping.” Jack steps through. Shrike chuckles on the line.

“She? The Shrike is a bloke!”

“Don’t believe everything you see on the telly. How’s your medication, Jack, by the way?”

“Ditched it,” the impulse to lie is not there, not now, and he can imagine Shrike nodding with approval on the other side of the comm even if Lena reproachfully mutters some curse.

“Any withdrawal symptoms so far?”

“Hell if I know. I’m hallucinating like crazy, but it started on the dosage.” The place is again eerily empty, the red crosses on the walls don’t bother him that much anymore but the sporadic clusters of gray ash he makes sure not to step in out of some inner inexplicable conviction shake him to the core.

“It’s going to get worse with Reaper around. It induces psychic shock only with proximity.” It. Calling Reaper ‘it’ feels inherently wrong and Jack clenches his teeth, faltering in his stride for a second. “Next turn will have you above the hub. They are rigging explosives to blow the security area open. There’s something I have to take care of, if anything comes up I will contact you again.”

“I’m moved by your concern, Sunshine, really,” the Beast mocks him with a lurking undertone of fondness.

“Bloody hogwash, all this shit,” Lena spats out. “What’s this business with your meds?”

“They weren’t helping. The Beast doesn’t like them.” She falls silent for a while. “I have the episodes already but I’m managing.”

“Jack, luv, you read about thirty meters below me.” She is concerned. He doesn’t want her to be. Crazy or not, he is dealing. Somehow, badly, but he is dealing with it. “We will get this mess sorted out. Call me if you need, you know… Oxton out.”

He stops above the security room, ever so helpfully labeled literally with a big sign over the secluded area in the bigger hall. The set up does not belong in a hospital and would be strange and suspicious if he had not known what he does know now. One of the agents below knocks on the glass.

“Ma’am, there was a break out in specimen containment. We are evacuating everybody.” Jack crouches down and braces the rifle against his shoulder, preparing for the recoil.

“No! Leave me alone! I’m safe in here!” The woman inside screams back at him. The one setting up the charge moves back and shows the okay sign. Jack holds his breath and aims.

“Steady now, Sunshine,” the Beast chides him.

“I know,” he pulls the trigger and holds it until the magazine empties. Splattered blood brings an intense sense of satisfaction he isn’t sure is his own that flows through his mind. He jumps down and rolls on the floor, turning towards the secure area, sudden pain stabbing just behind his eyes.

Inside, through the window, he can see the woman, now frozen in the motion of backing off towards the wall, her skin graying rapidly and changing the texture. There is something – someone – standing before her, dark claw touching her forehead, but the red glowing eyes of the black figure with decaying flesh in place of a face focus on him.

There is a flick of a finger and the woman’s form crumples into gray ash, slowly falling apart, parts drifting off on an invisible air current.

“I see you,” Jack, with the Beast crowding his back, whispers weakly.

#sometimes i write #overwatch #fear!au #r76 #reaper76 #i guess

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by-air-blog · 6 years

Text

F.U.N.G ( Fucking Useless New Guy )

Farrier goes on his very first mission.

word count: 2366

tw: vomit, cursing, guns, nazis, death, war, anxiety

Farrier tossed and turned until he saw the sunlight starting to blush over the dewy horizon before the sun even showed its face. His nerves were ever present and warily breathing down his shoulder even though the call for flight prep wasn’t until late evening, and the mission itself was not until sunset. Time seemed to drag on and on, the day too long. However, once the sun began its early autumnal descent in the sky, the clock flew. His limbs were sore and tired as he moved quickly around his barrack, but he could hardly pay any mind. Farrier’s attention was focused on his shaking fingers trying to button each button on his navy blue jacket, shouldering on his Mae West as he did.

With one last fleeting glance towards his bunk, wondering, for the first time, if he was to ever return.

No time for hypotheticals, though; everybody died around here. Farrier marched out to the tarmac. The matte row of two Spitfires leaning on either side of a Douglas DC - 3 looked aflame in the 1700 scarlet light. The lemon of a Spitfire that was distributed to Farrier seemed to gleam a bit brighter, though, even in the shadow of the massive transport ship and the spanking brand new Spitfire that his superior flew.

As he let the corner of his mouth quirk up, Farrier’s gut heaved suddenly. He could barely curse at himself before his nerves overcame him and he vomited on the grass just beside the tarmac. Farrier spat bitterly as some technicians finishing the final touches on the Douglas whooped.

“Better down here than up there, right, mate?” One called to him.

“Fockin’ FUNG!” cried less than sympathetic other.

Farrier tried not to hurry to the craft, tried to adopt a swaggering walk as if he didn’t just vomit from nerves alone, but there was a franaticism to him nevertheless. He put his ‘chute on and clambered up the port side wing, gloved fingers pressing and pulling at the catch and slide back hood. It opened after a few novice jerks and he propped himself up on the sides of the snug cockpit, dropping in. His seat and pedals needed no adjustment and Farrier reminded himself of this; he had done this before. Maybe not on a formal mission, but he was a confident pilot. A pilot. The word felt good. He took the two Sutton Harness straps, fraying at the edges, and fastened them into the harness locks. Finally, he inserted the lock pin.

Farrier’s helmet came next and mask attached. He fit the RT cable and oxygen supply tube into the sockets on the right hand side of the cockpit.

He pressed the harness release button, enabling him to lean forward. Wasn’t much room to move about though. He flipped the master switch on and, after a brief moment, the worn dials flickered to life. Blue eyes glanced to the oxygen and fuel gauges and saw that the needles strained to the full side, even after he tapped the glass with his fat gloved finger. He scanned the rest of the dash, seeing to the undercarriage selector lever and the undercarriage indicator light and the landing lamp and whatnot. Farrier switched all four radio transmit buttons and double checked his progress.

Outside, he saw that any lingering personnel had left, leaving only the ground crew and the pilots tucked away in their planes. The Douglas, much slower than the lithe little Spitfires, had already begun its taxi. Farrier took a breath and worried that he might vomit again. With a shaking hand, he set the directional gyro to the runway setting, and then tightened and checked the throttle friction adjuster. Taking hold of kygas priming pump, he slowly pumped it six times as the manual had dictated, working the priming pump back out as he felt the fuel pressure resistance within the unit.

Farrier glanced out of the still open hatch and called to the preoccupied man wearing designated ground staff colours. “All clear?” he called. The man didn’t hear him, so he yelled once more. This time, the man glanced up at him before he staggered to side suddenly. Farrier stared. The man held his stomach and pantomimed being sick on his feet before straightening and giving Farrier a toothy smile and a thumbs up whilst his compatriots guffawed. Farrier’s lips pursed and he tasted bile on his tongue. He flicked the two magneto switches up and called again to the man. “Contact!” Another thumbs up.

Now shaking with returning nerves at the realisation of his position, Farrier pressed the starter button and the fitted booster coil simultaneously before quickly, perhaps too quickly, pushing in on the kygas pump. Nothing happened. He tried again, this time with more dictation. Nothing happened. Farrier’s stomach dropped. He tried once more, this time slower, and the old Spitfire caught up and coughed to life. The Merlin engine fired up with a sputter and a half before rumbling as normal.

Outside, the ground crew undid the starter trolley connecting the starter motor situated inside the flap on the starboard side of the engine. As he sealed the cockpit off, Farrier adjusted the throttle, letting the Merlin warm up. He bounced it back and forth from too low to too high, knowing full well that the early Merlin Marks would overheat easily. Never mind that the engine situated in the little Spitfire was a Merlin Mark XII…

From the dirty window, Farrier indicated “chocks away” and he felt the blocks ensnaring the wheels being dragged away. Once he was given the all clear, Farrier very tentatively released the brake lever and opened the throttle. The engine changed pitch as the Spitfire began to taxi out. His hands gripped the wheel and sweat soaked his body. Behind him, the sun slipped beneath the flat horizon.

“Tutamen Two this is Control checking in,” a voice came on in his headset.

“Tutamen Two checking in,” he replied.

“Make sure your taps and tits are all in order and head to 34/5 south for take - off. Tutamen Main is already airborne and at five hundred feet about twenty kilometres out.”

“Copy that; angels - one - point - five at twenty clicks, Control.” The Spitfire bobbed along the runway as it headed out to the southbound runway. He stopped at the line and glanced to the right. The tower stood in the ditch and, on the other side of it, was a twin Spitfire facing south. Tutamen One.

The sky was bleeding violet in the west as the pallet of orange began to fade, a deepening bruise of night growing to the east. Farrier’s heart raced in his chest and he struggled to control his breathing. He blinked a few times and raised his hand to wipe at the moisture that was accumulating on his eyelids. He barely registered when the Tower gave him the okay to take off. His body moved before his mind.

Farrier moved his right foot forward for the full right rudder to counteract the swing from the Merlin. He released the brake lever and opened the throttle gently to give about four pounds of boost. He pushed the control column forward slowly. Moving it with haste would send force the nose down onto the tarmac.

Now moving across the airfield, slightly behind Tutamen One, Farrier worked the right aileron control in tandem with the rudder pedal, fighting to keep the Spit moving along the line. He pushed the throttle forward and the engine howled with power. The tail lifted off the ground, the little wheel spinning wildly. In response, Farrier pulled the control column back. Now flying past barracks and planes and hangars and trees and everything, Farrier eased the throttle forward all the way to the gate, achieving full power. Barely feeling any crack or imperfection in the tarmac, the Spitfire hovered above the ground at eighty - five miles per hour. Hand holding tight to the control column, Farrier’s stomach lurched as he felt the lift beneath the wings and the Spitfire become airborne. He sat stiff as he steadily guided the craft up, up, up, until the ground shrunk beneath him.

“Please restate your position, Tutamen Main,” the voice of Tutamen One, a seasoned flight lieutenant ace named William Davenport came over the comm.

“Twenty five miles from Cattewater, at about angels - one - point - six - five, over.”

“Copy that. Did you catch that, Tutamen Two?”

“Twenty five miles, 1,650 feet,” Farrier echoed. He braked the wheels slightly, stilling them as he began to lift them up into the undercarriage. Two bumps rumbled through the fuselage, letting him know the wheels were up. His hands began changing positions. He pulled the throttle lever back to the cruising revs, as well as the air screw control lever.

The two Spits made good time catching up with the Douglas even as the were climbing in the night sky. Farrier nervously took his position at the port side of the massive transport craft, wings waggling with overcompensating movements back and forth.

“Stay cool, Tutamen Two,” the co - pilot of the Douglas said. “She wants to fly straight; let her.”

“Copy that, Tutamen Main,” Farrier deadpanned and let out a quiet sigh of reassurance, trying to let that console him. He eased up and the Spitfire took the small headwinds and minor turbulence as they came. It was fitting to be about a three hour flight one way, hugging the English side of the Channel so as to not tempt any bloodthirsty bandits lurking in the dark. Nevertheless, they were still flying at combat range - 395 miles on a full tank for a 278 mile journey, including take off, landing, and a safety for fifteen minutes of fighting.

The time was filled with chat between the three seasoned pilots, leaving Farrier, who was more than happy, to listen. Talk of the latest niche picture on the gronk boards or imitations of commanding officers and Americans ran rampant; Farrier couldn’t help but snicker along.

“Hello,” said the co - pilot of the Douglas in a thick German accent.

Laughter.

“Mein name...es Heinrich.”

More laughter.

“I’m ze vun who zent vourty- vive vild dogs to your bedvoom.”

“Your accent’s slipping, Rodg.”

“Oh, come off it, mate, I nail it every time. I fuckin’ nail it.”

The roar of the Messerschmidt took Farrier by surprise, took them all by surprise. He jumped and swallowed nervously. The German craft sporting a bright swastika on each side of the tail fired a stripe of bullets along the top of the Douglas.

“Get on him, Tutamen Two!” Tutamen Main ordered, snapping Farrier out of his shock. He peeled away immediately, groaning as the gravitational thrust crushed his weight against the port side of the fuselage. He slowed the thrust as he came round, pushing it forward as he sped back. Farrier jerked back hard as he chased after the Messerschmidt. For a brief moment, he wondered why he had been chosen to go stop the bandit. Was it his skill? For experience? Some unknown rite of passage? His heavy brow knit together as he realised the truth was much less glamorous: he was cannon fodder, a tool to buy time and distance.

Catching up with the Nazi was rough. The Mark of ME 109 could outrun and outmaneuver the Spitfire easily. His eyes squinted as he glanced through the red crosshairs, stomach cramping nervously as he engaged the Browning .303 machine guns. It was a feeling that he never got over. Farrier felt himself racing through sky, heard indistinct chatter through the comm. His heart was racing, his body shook with adrenaline. He noticed himself going much quicker and barely realised he had been tricked when he passed the low, lethargic hum of the 109’s slowed thrusters suddenly speeding up. The German was on him. Farrier banked hard, glancing through the rear mirror. The yellow nose of the Messerschmidt steadily rose up and Farrier’s heart sunk. The bandit turned inside him, exposing it’s belly as it deftly fixed Farrier in his cross-hairs. A bark of gunfire rang out and, instinctively, Farrier ducked as they hit the Supermarine. No evasiveness, no speed could save him now. He could make out the Douglas ahead.

Breathing hard, Farrier slowed the Merlin to a grind and pulled back on the propeller lever. Immediately, the Spitfire started to slowly divebomb down towards the promontory. The night sky blanketed any evidence of smoke and the German had no choice but to go on. Farrier’s eyes squinted hard against the darkness, listening, waiting for the bait to be taken. He got as low to the earth as he dared, eyes cast up, Spitfire still slowing. The Messerschmidt proceeded on to take her prize.

“Tutamen Two, are you down?”

“No,” said Farrier, increasing the propeller RPM’s and giving the Merlin engine as much fuel as she could take. He skyrocketed up and the engine ground out its protestations. The oxygen was pulled from his chest, tears drawing out from his eyes as he flew the Spitfire at a brutal pace. The metal rivets rattled with worry and, if he were less concerned about the craft dismantling in the middle of the night sky, he would’ve given the Spitfire a pat or two. He made out the dark shape of the German craft and leveled out, settling the heart of the fuselage in the clear centre of his cross-hairs. “I’m on him.” He let a barrage of bullets loose, careful not to hit the friendly planes. Realising his fatal mistake, the 109 banked right, but it was too late. A stream of grey traced across the sky. Farrier let another round of bullets go anyway, just in case. “H-he’s down,” Farrier reported, watching the plane crash with a bright explosion.

He pulled ahead and took his place on the port side of the Douglas, continuing on to Calais. For a moment, he wondered if the pilot was on his first mission as well, wondered if he too left his barrack and questioned if he was to return. Farrier steeled himself and continued his flying vigil; the night was still very young.

#angels 6 // drabbles #dunkirk #dunkirk fanfiction #tw vomit #tw death #tw nazis #tw war #tw anxiety #tw guns

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