People have looked at Wells in terror before. The thing is that he's always earned it. Recruits, mostly- lads who've heard of the sergeant's reputation, and who don't think they can measure up. He's taken that fear and used it, yeah, but only to make damned sure those young men did every last thing they could to be worthy of the uniforms they wore. To keep their skins in one piece.
( Listen, the only people who go looking for trouble are Kamikazes, glory boys and full-on fucking fuckwits. )
This was not that fear. There was nothing of knowing to the fear behind their eyes. This was the unwitting terror of 'my routine is shattered, what do I do?'. This was the certainty that something was wrong and the inability to say what it was. This was-
-oh, God, this was the look of prey animals just before the herd broke and ran...
( We're on a different level here, Cooper. For that, I need men of action, not deeds. )
"It's going to be rather difficult to get anything out of him as long as he's like that," he observed, clinging to the
( ... )
"Sir," The first doctor let out a squeak- "It is a pleasure sir-" He cast a glance to his colleague. The man (They were only told that he was a male, nothing else) rolled his head upward to stare blankly into Preston's face.
Hurt there? Maybe. Mistrust and confusion? Definitely.
However it is very obvious that Preston's rage is barely contained as he steps forward-casting one last glance in Jurgen's direction-
Then back to Father. Mentally trying to send him the message of Move. Back.
He lifted an eyebrow, nodded; then he glanced to the shadow at his side.
Tilting his head to one side, just so, he stepped back a half-pace. Then, perhaps, another; he had the feeling there was going to be quite a lot of mess very shortly.
"I'll have him awake shortly sir." the second doctor seemed oblivious to the first-who was staring at Presotn and wondering why he was so darn close.
The room unbearably tense, Jurgen leaned back in his chair as far as he could. And Preston reacted.
Fingers closed around a scalpel lying on a table Preston darted to the left-dropping low and kicking the man's legs out from underhim. Torture devices were thrown across the room as the man fell back terrified-an inch before Preston was on him, slashing the man across his throat.
The second doctor had darted forward-bolting back across the room scrambling for a weapon-
His fingers closed on the button to sound the Alarm as Preston stood up in one swift motion he had his gun in hand thanks to the new holsters out of his sleeve.
One shot. The man's head exploded across the wall.
Five seconds. The headless body slumped forward and slid against the wall.
smell, noise, lights, moon, shouting, all bearing down on him at once, goddamn bastards pouring in like they owned the fucking place-
The beast wanted out and it wanted out NOW. It was everything he could to to hold it in... and then the words got through to him. On your knees.
"Very well," he said. "I shall do that." He made a slight gesture to Preston- down, lad- and started to bend.
Blood and thunder and mayhem and death, YES, but not yet. Not... just... yet. As he made to kneel, one foot went back. Both hands went down.
And Harry Wells exploded out of the starting blocks in a blast of quick-twitch muscle fiber that an Olympic sprinter would envy.
It was not graceful. It was not art. Preston's performance earlier, for all that it had ended two lives in a fistful of seconds, had born the marks of art, traces stamped on his movements over the course of a lifetime. But Harry Wells had never studied any such thing. He'd only had the self-defence training of a soldier, and the only goal there was to hurt the other
( ... )
When Wells sprang outward Preston pulled Jurgen away with one last forceful ounce of strength. Jurgen coughed, wincing-groaning in pain-
And Wells moved. Preston could never hope to be that fast.
The guards didn't know what to expect. One, the boldest one-Raised his firearm shooting a short burst off into the darkness at the speedy-unnatural-man.
The rest stared-thrown off-amazed. no one moved that fast.
Red-hot pain seared across Wells' consciousness, but there was no time for any more thought than that; it was not a big room, and he was already on the nearest of the guards. It's not a proper punch if it hasn't got your whole body behind it, lads, and oh God, if any punch ever had all of a man's body behind it this one did, rising from hip to torso to shoulder to fist to gutWells spun, one foot lashing out swift and low, a hooking gesture that cost the next guard his footing even as the first staggered backward, weapon clattering from his fingers as he doubled over in horror and pain. The others would have shot him if they could have seen him as much more than motion, but by the time they did it was already far too late. Wells fought, not like a Cleric, but like a hooligan- simple, brutal blows, delivered too fast to follow. One of the guards thought to get around behind the man, not so much to take him down as to get out of the line of fire
( ... )
Re: Fools Rush intransgenic_maxFebruary 23 2006, 21:11:24 UTC
(OOC: If this is the wrong place, feel free to swat me.)
Which is why you leave a rear guard, really. Max stands silent as they approach, blocking the door. Though her face is still shielded from view, her posture manages to radiate cold, confident calm, the sort found almost exclusively on the edge of violence.
Re: Fools Rush intransgenic_maxFebruary 25 2006, 21:24:38 UTC
She tilts her head to one side, calculating the best angle to get under the gunfire almost automatically.
"Better idea: turn around and walk away now, and maybe you keep breathing for a few more days."
The long coat that's part of the uniform is whipped off as she's finishing the sentence, a blur of motion faster than the human eye can track. It's released at the height of momentum, flung into the face of the lead guard, and Max drops into a roll beneath the likely line of gunfire, flinging herself forward, still moving too. Damned. Fast.
Comments 37
( Listen, the only people who go looking for trouble are Kamikazes, glory boys and full-on fucking fuckwits. )
This was not that fear. There was nothing of knowing to the fear behind their eyes. This was the unwitting terror of 'my routine is shattered, what do I do?'. This was the certainty that something was wrong and the inability to say what it was. This was-
-oh, God, this was the look of prey animals just before the herd broke and ran...
( We're on a different level here, Cooper. For that, I need men of action, not deeds. )
"It's going to be rather difficult to get anything out of him as long as he's like that," he observed, clinging to the ( ... )
Reply
Hurt there? Maybe.
Mistrust and confusion? Definitely.
However it is very obvious that Preston's rage is barely contained as he steps forward-casting one last glance in Jurgen's direction-
Then back to Father.
Mentally trying to send him the message of Move. Back.
Reply
Tilting his head to one side, just so, he stepped back a half-pace. Then, perhaps, another; he had the feeling there was going to be quite a lot of mess very shortly.
Reply
The room unbearably tense, Jurgen leaned back in his chair as far as he could.
And Preston reacted.
Fingers closed around a scalpel lying on a table Preston darted to the left-dropping low and kicking the man's legs out from underhim. Torture devices were thrown across the room as the man fell back terrified-an inch before Preston was on him, slashing the man across his throat.
The second doctor had darted forward-bolting back across the room scrambling for a weapon-
His fingers closed on the button to sound the Alarm as Preston stood up in one swift motion he had his gun in hand thanks to the new holsters out of his sleeve.
One shot.
The man's head exploded across the wall.
Five seconds.
The headless body slumped forward and slid against the wall.
Reply
"What the hell's going on here!"
So much for being bloodless.
Six Guards.
"Cleric! What the hell is going on? Father sir?-"
Preston had an arm around Jurgen still, trying to help their leader from his chair.
A second of silence.
"Down on the ground!" Guns all around were raised to the room's occupants, "On your knees! comply! comply!"
Reply
smell, noise, lights, moon, shouting, all bearing down on him at once, goddamn bastards pouring in like they owned the fucking place-
The beast wanted out and it wanted out NOW. It was everything he could to to hold it in... and then the words got through to him. On your knees.
"Very well," he said. "I shall do that." He made a slight gesture to Preston- down, lad- and started to bend.
Blood and thunder and mayhem and death, YES, but not yet. Not... just... yet. As he made to kneel, one foot went back. Both hands went down.
And Harry Wells exploded out of the starting blocks in a blast of quick-twitch muscle fiber that an Olympic sprinter would envy.
It was not graceful. It was not art. Preston's performance earlier, for all that it had ended two lives in a fistful of seconds, had born the marks of art, traces stamped on his movements over the course of a lifetime. But Harry Wells had never studied any such thing. He'd only had the self-defence training of a soldier, and the only goal there was to hurt the other ( ... )
Reply
When Wells sprang outward Preston pulled Jurgen away with one last forceful ounce of strength. Jurgen coughed, wincing-groaning in pain-
And Wells moved.
Preston could never hope to be that fast.
The guards didn't know what to expect.
One, the boldest one-Raised his firearm shooting a short burst off into the darkness at the speedy-unnatural-man.
The rest stared-thrown off-amazed.
no one moved that fast.
Reply
Reply
That would be why there's a rather large pack of them heading down the hallway, almost in tandium-Heading for the Door-
and those guarding it.
Reply
Which is why you leave a rear guard, really. Max stands silent as they approach, blocking the door. Though her face is still shielded from view, her posture manages to radiate cold, confident calm, the sort found almost exclusively on the edge of violence.
She isn't unarmed, but hasn't yet drawn a weapon.
There is a quick mental count.
Reply
There are about eight.
The lead one steps forward, as wide as a brick wall and twice as fugly.
"You heard me! Now!"
Reply
"Better idea: turn around and walk away now, and maybe you keep breathing for a few more days."
The long coat that's part of the uniform is whipped off as she's finishing the sentence, a blur of motion faster than the human eye can track. It's released at the height of momentum, flung into the face of the lead guard, and Max drops into a roll beneath the likely line of gunfire, flinging herself forward, still moving too. Damned. Fast.
Reply
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