part 3e & 3f
Rating: PG-13 (possibly higher; some mentions of war & all that comes with it)
Pairing(s): Implied established H/W
Disclaimer: I'm sorry, ACD. :'C
Summary: AU crossover with Marble Hornets // the Slenderman mythos.
Word Count: 939
A/N: Sorry this one took so long and is so short. I had a couple papers to write and my loverboy managed to get me some full-colour scans of five Penance comics. C: /nerd
{search}
The first set (square-toed dress shoes, steps spaced unevenly with a slight drag on the right) were mine. The second (partial prints, quick succession of steps) were not. They trailed off into the unlit half of the room and, judging by the negligible degree of water evaporation, were as recent as my very own.
I tried to stand, too sudden, too much stress on my throbbing leg and I fell back gracelessly into the wing chair. It clattered a bit, shifting noisily across the floor. Wincing, I knew that I had lost any advantage of surprise or stealth I might have had. The intruder must have heard. How could he have not heard? I was useless today. My mind was clouded with fear and I had rendered my body uncooperative by overexerting myself.
My arms trembled violently as I lifted myself back into a standing position, gripping the arms of the chair and taking short stabilizing steps. I paused for a bit and waited until I was more confident in my leg, then edged forward. My breathing was rattling in my throat, I clutched my cane like a gun, unable to keep my mind from reverting to the trenches.
Bodies unceremonious on a pyre, the sick-sweet and cloying reek of burning hair and flesh. My skin was clammy, cold. Lips dead pale. Carrying a companion to the heap, he was only 15. Faked his age to win his father's approval. Was it worth it? Was it worth it? But I straightened my back and squared my shoulders. I had to keep walking. A sudden sound. Oh, God where was it coming from I could not tell if it was behind me, or if I were walking into more imminent danger. Bullets whistle and streak, quick cadence, pounding out 6/8 time on a savage instrument. Hunch low, don't stop moving. And mud and shit and unmentionable filth is sucking hungrily at your boots and you've half fallen But I have to keep moving forward. and - oh dear Christ in Heaven - blood and scraps of ruined flesh pelt my face as the man behind me falls making pathetic animal half-screams that gurgle and get lost and I'm yelling something but it gets lost in that roar, mortars pounding double-time tempus imperfectum diminutum and the only thing I get for my efforts is a scrubbed raw throat and My leg feels like it's full of knives jangling, pressing closer in with each step I swear to God, my leg's exploded, blood everywhere. There's a difference between categorical knowledge of a pint of blood and empirical and I'm a bit giddy from all that adrenaline and endorphin, so I'm still surging forward. Sickening grinding crunching feel with each step, but the injured man is within sight and I'll be damned before I leave him there because I am so close I'm within the darkest part of the room now and I'm scanning wildly for the source of the footprints.
And at the back of the room there was a silhouette, almost like a man, dressed in dark clothes. Perhaps a suit? I couldn't be certain, the curtains were drawn on that side, creating an obscuring pall. The glimpse I caught of whoever -whatever - it was, to say the least, short-lived. It moved forward, quickly, seamlessly, almost as if it propelled by something other than bodily mechanics. The last thing I saw was an expanse of pale, pale flesh like wax and two hellish gunshot wound eyes. I tried with my whole being to let out a cry, to fight back, but a thick sort of paralysis had taken hold of me and I had scarce managed a pathetic rasp before darkness stole my vision and my legs failed beneath me.
{hold}
I awakened to a vigorous rapping against my window. My first urge was to lift my head and look about the room but I knew that if I did so I might lose a critical advantage. If HE was here, trying to get back in - God knows if HE even left at all - I would need the greatest time advantage that I could leverage. Every second counted because every second was one that I could be formulating a plan, plotting a precise course of action, so that when the time came that I was forced to act, I could be most effective in preserving my own life.
I took inventory of my body, my orientation within the room. I was face-down on the floor, legs splayed and outstretched, my arms obscuring my face. I was thankful for the last, as it afforded me the advantage of opening my eyes a bit. The room was dark and the fire was dying down, only casting a hazy flickering glow, but I could still make out a few features.
Four wooden clawed feet - perhaps the wing chair? - approximately eight feet away. Beside me, a bookshelf, leather-bound volumes of Socrates. Left side of the room, toward the middle. The window was on the right. My revolver was in the middle drawer of the tall mahogany desk, about three feet from the window and twelve from myself.
A thick, heavy ache was settling into my joints and back. I would not be quick on my feet, I had to rely on my mind. I tried to sharpen my focus, my whole world was that desk drawer. I thought on the revolver. It was loaded, only four bullets in the chamber. Likely, it was pushed to the back of the drawer, perhaps under some papers. This would cost a few seconds' time.
← →
Pairing(s): Implied established H/W
Disclaimer: I'm sorry, ACD. :'C
Summary: AU crossover with Marble Hornets // the Slenderman mythos.
Word Count: 939
A/N: Sorry this one took so long and is so short. I had a couple papers to write and my loverboy managed to get me some full-colour scans of five Penance comics. C: /nerd
{search}
The first set (square-toed dress shoes, steps spaced unevenly with a slight drag on the right) were mine. The second (partial prints, quick succession of steps) were not. They trailed off into the unlit half of the room and, judging by the negligible degree of water evaporation, were as recent as my very own.
I tried to stand, too sudden, too much stress on my throbbing leg and I fell back gracelessly into the wing chair. It clattered a bit, shifting noisily across the floor. Wincing, I knew that I had lost any advantage of surprise or stealth I might have had. The intruder must have heard. How could he have not heard? I was useless today. My mind was clouded with fear and I had rendered my body uncooperative by overexerting myself.
My arms trembled violently as I lifted myself back into a standing position, gripping the arms of the chair and taking short stabilizing steps. I paused for a bit and waited until I was more confident in my leg, then edged forward. My breathing was rattling in my throat, I clutched my cane like a gun, unable to keep my mind from reverting to the trenches.
Bodies unceremonious on a pyre, the sick-sweet and cloying reek of burning hair and flesh. My skin was clammy, cold. Lips dead pale. Carrying a companion to the heap, he was only 15. Faked his age to win his father's approval. Was it worth it? Was it worth it? But I straightened my back and squared my shoulders. I had to keep walking. A sudden sound. Oh, God where was it coming from I could not tell if it was behind me, or if I were walking into more imminent danger. Bullets whistle and streak, quick cadence, pounding out 6/8 time on a savage instrument. Hunch low, don't stop moving. And mud and shit and unmentionable filth is sucking hungrily at your boots and you've half fallen But I have to keep moving forward. and - oh dear Christ in Heaven - blood and scraps of ruined flesh pelt my face as the man behind me falls making pathetic animal half-screams that gurgle and get lost and I'm yelling something but it gets lost in that roar, mortars pounding double-time tempus imperfectum diminutum and the only thing I get for my efforts is a scrubbed raw throat and My leg feels like it's full of knives jangling, pressing closer in with each step I swear to God, my leg's exploded, blood everywhere. There's a difference between categorical knowledge of a pint of blood and empirical and I'm a bit giddy from all that adrenaline and endorphin, so I'm still surging forward. Sickening grinding crunching feel with each step, but the injured man is within sight and I'll be damned before I leave him there because I am so close I'm within the darkest part of the room now and I'm scanning wildly for the source of the footprints.
And at the back of the room there was a silhouette, almost like a man, dressed in dark clothes. Perhaps a suit? I couldn't be certain, the curtains were drawn on that side, creating an obscuring pall. The glimpse I caught of whoever -whatever - it was, to say the least, short-lived. It moved forward, quickly, seamlessly, almost as if it propelled by something other than bodily mechanics. The last thing I saw was an expanse of pale, pale flesh like wax and two hellish gunshot wound eyes. I tried with my whole being to let out a cry, to fight back, but a thick sort of paralysis had taken hold of me and I had scarce managed a pathetic rasp before darkness stole my vision and my legs failed beneath me.
{hold}
I awakened to a vigorous rapping against my window. My first urge was to lift my head and look about the room but I knew that if I did so I might lose a critical advantage. If HE was here, trying to get back in - God knows if HE even left at all - I would need the greatest time advantage that I could leverage. Every second counted because every second was one that I could be formulating a plan, plotting a precise course of action, so that when the time came that I was forced to act, I could be most effective in preserving my own life.
I took inventory of my body, my orientation within the room. I was face-down on the floor, legs splayed and outstretched, my arms obscuring my face. I was thankful for the last, as it afforded me the advantage of opening my eyes a bit. The room was dark and the fire was dying down, only casting a hazy flickering glow, but I could still make out a few features.
Four wooden clawed feet - perhaps the wing chair? - approximately eight feet away. Beside me, a bookshelf, leather-bound volumes of Socrates. Left side of the room, toward the middle. The window was on the right. My revolver was in the middle drawer of the tall mahogany desk, about three feet from the window and twelve from myself.
A thick, heavy ache was settling into my joints and back. I would not be quick on my feet, I had to rely on my mind. I tried to sharpen my focus, my whole world was that desk drawer. I thought on the revolver. It was loaded, only four bullets in the chamber. Likely, it was pushed to the back of the drawer, perhaps under some papers. This would cost a few seconds' time.
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