kamikaze (Blade: Trinity, 1/1)
More Blade fic. It comes out a week from today, people! Two-disc unrated edition! Possibly containing the original ending! SCORE!
Also, I think I just like putting Abigail and King in dire situations and letting them snark their way out.
kamikaze
By Gale
SUMMARY: June of 2003, the worst jam they’ve been in so far.
The worst jam they’ve been in, so far:
June 2003, parking garage an hour from sunrise. Them, their weapons, a surprising number of wounds, and about 300 vamps and familiars on all the levels.
Dex is stuck on the top floor, shooting his way through with slow progress. Him getting there isn’t the question; it’s whether they’ll be alive when he gets there.
“How many arrows you have left?” King asks through gritted teeth. His shoulder’s dislocated; right now he’s trying to work up the nerve to slam it back into place.
“Twenty-five,” Abigail says, “maybe thirty.” She doesn’t sound shaky, but King can see the little things: the set of her shoulders, how white the tips of her fingers are. “And a couple rounds of bullets. You?”
“The rest of what I have chambered, plus - hold on,” he says suddenly, and slams his shoulder against the elevator wall. “FUCK!”
Abigail just watches him and flexes her fingers, cracks her knuckles.
King waits until he can talk without his voice cracking. “-plus another fifty or sixty rounds. Knives, a couple of UV grenades. Not a hell of a lot. Boot knives?”
Abigail triggers them. “Check.”
”Okay, so. Still not enough.” King thinks for a second, then says, “Fuck it. Let’s just go out there.”
“*What*?” Abigail says, sounding alarmed. “We don’t have a plan.”
”I know.” King tests his shoulders. Seems okay. “Hence the ‘fuck it, let’s just go out there’ part.”
”But that’s not a plan.”
King looks at her, incredulous. “So?”
”*So*?” Abigail says. She sounds like he looks, now. “We have to have a plan. We’re outnumbered-“
”Only for another 47 minutes.” King taps his watch. “Sunrise, remember? Parking garage? Lots of shiny UV.”
“-we have no route of escape-“
”Only until Dex gets here. Then bam! We’re Houdini. No, he’s dead. David Copperfield.”
“-and we’re running low on weapons.”
”No we’re not,” King says. “You’re a weapon. I’m a weapon. Shit, a *Lexus* is a weapon if you use it right. Besides, we still have ammo.”
”Not enough,” Abigail says, shaking her head. Her voice is still okay, but she looks - lost, almost. “Not to get to the top from down here, King, it’s suicide.”
”No. Suicide means killing yourself.” King checks his gun. “And I have no intention of dying here this morning, or of letting you get killed. So you’re going to have to suck it up and get over it, because in fifteen seconds I’m opening the elevator doors, and frankly we don’t have time for that kind of pessimistic bullshit.” He looks at her. “Now, who are you?”
Oh, not this again. “Abigail Whistler,” she says, mostly to shut him up.
“Who are you?”
This is not one of Sommerfield’s better ideas. It’s like a pep rally. Still, there’s no denying that it...it works, somehow, independent of any kind of sense. “Abigail Whistler,” she says, a little louder this time.
“And who is that?” Moments like this, King isn’t anything but a motivational speaker. Or maybe a cult leader. Possibly it’s a holdover from the vampire thing; Abigail’s seen Sommerfield’s lab notes.
Abigail takes a deep breath. She’ll feel stupid about it later, but she’ll be alive to feel stupid about it later. Fair trade. “Death.”
”Death for who?” King asks, still holding her eyes.
Stupid, stupid, ten kinds of stupid, but there’s power in this. She can feel it.
Abigail takes out an arrow and nocks it, takes a deep breath. “Not for us,” she mutters, and means it, and opens the elevator door.
Also, I think I just like putting Abigail and King in dire situations and letting them snark their way out.
kamikaze
By Gale
SUMMARY: June of 2003, the worst jam they’ve been in so far.
The worst jam they’ve been in, so far:
June 2003, parking garage an hour from sunrise. Them, their weapons, a surprising number of wounds, and about 300 vamps and familiars on all the levels.
Dex is stuck on the top floor, shooting his way through with slow progress. Him getting there isn’t the question; it’s whether they’ll be alive when he gets there.
“How many arrows you have left?” King asks through gritted teeth. His shoulder’s dislocated; right now he’s trying to work up the nerve to slam it back into place.
“Twenty-five,” Abigail says, “maybe thirty.” She doesn’t sound shaky, but King can see the little things: the set of her shoulders, how white the tips of her fingers are. “And a couple rounds of bullets. You?”
“The rest of what I have chambered, plus - hold on,” he says suddenly, and slams his shoulder against the elevator wall. “FUCK!”
Abigail just watches him and flexes her fingers, cracks her knuckles.
King waits until he can talk without his voice cracking. “-plus another fifty or sixty rounds. Knives, a couple of UV grenades. Not a hell of a lot. Boot knives?”
Abigail triggers them. “Check.”
”Okay, so. Still not enough.” King thinks for a second, then says, “Fuck it. Let’s just go out there.”
“*What*?” Abigail says, sounding alarmed. “We don’t have a plan.”
”I know.” King tests his shoulders. Seems okay. “Hence the ‘fuck it, let’s just go out there’ part.”
”But that’s not a plan.”
King looks at her, incredulous. “So?”
”*So*?” Abigail says. She sounds like he looks, now. “We have to have a plan. We’re outnumbered-“
”Only for another 47 minutes.” King taps his watch. “Sunrise, remember? Parking garage? Lots of shiny UV.”
“-we have no route of escape-“
”Only until Dex gets here. Then bam! We’re Houdini. No, he’s dead. David Copperfield.”
“-and we’re running low on weapons.”
”No we’re not,” King says. “You’re a weapon. I’m a weapon. Shit, a *Lexus* is a weapon if you use it right. Besides, we still have ammo.”
”Not enough,” Abigail says, shaking her head. Her voice is still okay, but she looks - lost, almost. “Not to get to the top from down here, King, it’s suicide.”
”No. Suicide means killing yourself.” King checks his gun. “And I have no intention of dying here this morning, or of letting you get killed. So you’re going to have to suck it up and get over it, because in fifteen seconds I’m opening the elevator doors, and frankly we don’t have time for that kind of pessimistic bullshit.” He looks at her. “Now, who are you?”
Oh, not this again. “Abigail Whistler,” she says, mostly to shut him up.
“Who are you?”
This is not one of Sommerfield’s better ideas. It’s like a pep rally. Still, there’s no denying that it...it works, somehow, independent of any kind of sense. “Abigail Whistler,” she says, a little louder this time.
“And who is that?” Moments like this, King isn’t anything but a motivational speaker. Or maybe a cult leader. Possibly it’s a holdover from the vampire thing; Abigail’s seen Sommerfield’s lab notes.
Abigail takes a deep breath. She’ll feel stupid about it later, but she’ll be alive to feel stupid about it later. Fair trade. “Death.”
”Death for who?” King asks, still holding her eyes.
Stupid, stupid, ten kinds of stupid, but there’s power in this. She can feel it.
Abigail takes out an arrow and nocks it, takes a deep breath. “Not for us,” she mutters, and means it, and opens the elevator door.