Hate to break it to you, but it's out of my control...
sunday_reveries: "There are days when solitude is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic, and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall." - Colette
At five minutes to midnight before the tenth plague, Casey stands facing the doors of the police station with her pistol in hand, an angel to one side of her, a bristling mastiff shifter on the other. The doors have been barricaded, with desks and file cabinets, but it would be incredibly embarrassing if something broke through now and started killing people before the clock ticked over.
She bites her lip and listens, but everything seems to have quieted down outside - at least, there's nothing actively trying to get in right now, and it's not as if Brite can't smell those things coming, as if all the radios won't crackle into frantic static when one gets near the building. After a minute, she steps back, shoots James a glance - let me know if you notice anything - and turns slowly to survey the room.
A police station is not, generally speaking, the most comfortable place to sit out a warped Biblical plague. Every chair is taken up, and most people are sitting cross-legged in the empty space ont he floor where the desks have been cleared away, or standing around the edges of the room looking panicky, or distinctly like they're trying not to be panicky... A few scattered, murmured conversations break the silence, but for the most part, everyone is quiet, tense and waiting.
Casey pretends the silence doesn't bother her, and picks her way around a few groups of seated civilians to where a shellshocked eight-year-old sits on the edge of a desk, kicking her feet slowly in the air, staring at the clock. She looks up when Casey sits down beside her, and Casey smiles gently, reaching over to take her hand.
"Almost midnight now. Then it's all over."
It's not the most encouraging thing she could say to the kid, but "then you can go home" isn't an option. She was in the last group Casey had escorted to the station, right when darkness fell. One of those monsters just appeared, no warning. She shot the thing, but not fast enough - saved the kid, lost her dad. Somehow, promising to call CPS once this is all over lacks any real reassurance.
"How do you know?" she asks quietly. Emma, Casey remembers. Emma's her name. "What if the blood doesn't do anything and we all die anyway?"
Morbid child. Not that she hadn't exactly earned the right, after the day she'd had. Despite the cynicism, though, she's still clinging to Casey's hand as tight as she can. Casey shakes her head a little. "I won't let that happen. 'Cause the guy who's coming at midnight, he's supposed to be an angel, and..." She smiles, nodding towards James. "I've got a little experience with angels. Trust me, even if the blood doesn't work, he's not getting through me."
Emma almost smiles, dropping her head against Casey's shoulder to wait for midnight. Casey smooths her hair and wraps an arm around the girl's shoulders. She almost holds her breath. One minute. Forty five seconds. Thirty. Fifteen. Ten...
She closes her eyes, stops breathing, tightens her hand on Emma's shoulder. She thinks about praying, but doesn't. She can almost feel the clock turning to midnight, one soft click that resounds in her chest.
And then Emma is gone. She opens her eyes. They're all gone. The firstborns, the officers who'd been holding the station with her - all firstborns and only children, she remembers - everyone. The police station is silent, and for a split second she can't, won't, refuses to believe it. All the preparation, all the promises, and in the blink of an eye, there's just nothing left.
"No." It's just a whisper, but it breaks the silence. Enough to make it real. For a moment, she considers screaming, kicking something, throwing something, shouting for God or the Devil or whoever's in charge here to give them back or face her to tell her why not. A moment later, she decides against it. It won't do her any good, and she's already bone-weary, drained from days of fighting and preparing and worrying and hoping...
"Son of a bitch," she murmurs to herself, slides off the desk, and walks to the door to tear down her barricades and go home.
*
Casey spends an hour or so curled around her pillow, tears soaking into her hair and the pillowcase, tasting salt on her lips. The streets have been quiet since the plagues started, but now the whole city feels empty, like hers is the only heart beating in miles of steel and concrete. She falls asleep, finally, and is out like a light.
She had a vague plan to get up some time after the sun rose, go to the hospital, find Gray, see where and how she could help, but when she wakes up, the sun's already set. It doesn't seem exactly worth it to go out and risk the monsters she knows are still out there, when any sane person will be indoors on a day like this anyway.
She locates her journal instead, scribbles a note to Gray to let him know she's still alive (along with a promise to kill him if he's not), and spends some time flipping through the pages she'd missed earlier, reading the panic and promises and goodbyes of a city. There's nothing there for her, and she's not surprised. She closes the journal and sets it aside, fixes herself a quick dinner and ends up curled on her couch, wrapped in a blanket and staring out the frost-clouded window at the empty streets.
Tomorrow Casey will work out what to do, where to go, how to rebuild and where to start. Just now... it's almost funny. She hasn't had a moment to herself, to just breathe, since the plagues started. She'd thought she would have appreciated the silence more.
Muse: Casey Wyatt
Word Count: 981
At five minutes to midnight before the tenth plague, Casey stands facing the doors of the police station with her pistol in hand, an angel to one side of her, a bristling mastiff shifter on the other. The doors have been barricaded, with desks and file cabinets, but it would be incredibly embarrassing if something broke through now and started killing people before the clock ticked over.
She bites her lip and listens, but everything seems to have quieted down outside - at least, there's nothing actively trying to get in right now, and it's not as if Brite can't smell those things coming, as if all the radios won't crackle into frantic static when one gets near the building. After a minute, she steps back, shoots James a glance - let me know if you notice anything - and turns slowly to survey the room.
A police station is not, generally speaking, the most comfortable place to sit out a warped Biblical plague. Every chair is taken up, and most people are sitting cross-legged in the empty space ont he floor where the desks have been cleared away, or standing around the edges of the room looking panicky, or distinctly like they're trying not to be panicky... A few scattered, murmured conversations break the silence, but for the most part, everyone is quiet, tense and waiting.
Casey pretends the silence doesn't bother her, and picks her way around a few groups of seated civilians to where a shellshocked eight-year-old sits on the edge of a desk, kicking her feet slowly in the air, staring at the clock. She looks up when Casey sits down beside her, and Casey smiles gently, reaching over to take her hand.
"Almost midnight now. Then it's all over."
It's not the most encouraging thing she could say to the kid, but "then you can go home" isn't an option. She was in the last group Casey had escorted to the station, right when darkness fell. One of those monsters just appeared, no warning. She shot the thing, but not fast enough - saved the kid, lost her dad. Somehow, promising to call CPS once this is all over lacks any real reassurance.
"How do you know?" she asks quietly. Emma, Casey remembers. Emma's her name. "What if the blood doesn't do anything and we all die anyway?"
Morbid child. Not that she hadn't exactly earned the right, after the day she'd had. Despite the cynicism, though, she's still clinging to Casey's hand as tight as she can. Casey shakes her head a little. "I won't let that happen. 'Cause the guy who's coming at midnight, he's supposed to be an angel, and..." She smiles, nodding towards James. "I've got a little experience with angels. Trust me, even if the blood doesn't work, he's not getting through me."
Emma almost smiles, dropping her head against Casey's shoulder to wait for midnight. Casey smooths her hair and wraps an arm around the girl's shoulders. She almost holds her breath. One minute. Forty five seconds. Thirty. Fifteen. Ten...
She closes her eyes, stops breathing, tightens her hand on Emma's shoulder. She thinks about praying, but doesn't. She can almost feel the clock turning to midnight, one soft click that resounds in her chest.
And then Emma is gone. She opens her eyes. They're all gone. The firstborns, the officers who'd been holding the station with her - all firstborns and only children, she remembers - everyone. The police station is silent, and for a split second she can't, won't, refuses to believe it. All the preparation, all the promises, and in the blink of an eye, there's just nothing left.
"No." It's just a whisper, but it breaks the silence. Enough to make it real. For a moment, she considers screaming, kicking something, throwing something, shouting for God or the Devil or whoever's in charge here to give them back or face her to tell her why not. A moment later, she decides against it. It won't do her any good, and she's already bone-weary, drained from days of fighting and preparing and worrying and hoping...
"Son of a bitch," she murmurs to herself, slides off the desk, and walks to the door to tear down her barricades and go home.
*
Casey spends an hour or so curled around her pillow, tears soaking into her hair and the pillowcase, tasting salt on her lips. The streets have been quiet since the plagues started, but now the whole city feels empty, like hers is the only heart beating in miles of steel and concrete. She falls asleep, finally, and is out like a light.
She had a vague plan to get up some time after the sun rose, go to the hospital, find Gray, see where and how she could help, but when she wakes up, the sun's already set. It doesn't seem exactly worth it to go out and risk the monsters she knows are still out there, when any sane person will be indoors on a day like this anyway.
She locates her journal instead, scribbles a note to Gray to let him know she's still alive (along with a promise to kill him if he's not), and spends some time flipping through the pages she'd missed earlier, reading the panic and promises and goodbyes of a city. There's nothing there for her, and she's not surprised. She closes the journal and sets it aside, fixes herself a quick dinner and ends up curled on her couch, wrapped in a blanket and staring out the frost-clouded window at the empty streets.
Tomorrow Casey will work out what to do, where to go, how to rebuild and where to start. Just now... it's almost funny. She hasn't had a moment to herself, to just breathe, since the plagues started. She'd thought she would have appreciated the silence more.
Muse: Casey Wyatt
Word Count: 981