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Post by deus incognito on Dec 17, 2010 22:41:49 GMT -5
The night air is chilled and thick with oily smoke. The resistance has been out, lighting up buildings where suspected government workers, military officers, and government- or military-sympathizers are suspected to live. Deus's lip curls upward in scorn; the resistance has claimed proof to be an option in this war.
A sudden gust of wind blows a fistful of ashes at Deus's face. Immediately a hand flies up to protect his nose, his mouth, his eyes. "Fucking Resistant anarchists, ruining my shitty life, goddamn." He mutters, his breath unravelling from his mouth in heavy pools of white vapor. His face and hands are smudged with gray, adding more marks to his already freckled skin. His eyebrows tilt delicately down toward his nose, drawing his face into a tight frown.
There are so many tells, simple things that give away so much about him. His tongue lingers on the syllable of the words he speaks, his mouth tilts crookedly; Southen boy in action, with an accen€t thick as mud. His right hand, scarred across the knuckles, is closed in a tight fist, testament to past and present aggression, while his left hand is splayed against his thighs, middle and index fingers twitching - it's been so damn long since he's had a smoke. He misses it, but God knows he can't afford it. Lowly government worker, hardly able to keep off the viscious streets with a meal or two a day. Luxury is not an option.
He runs his bare hand against the biting cold metal of a fence, shuddering at the vivid sensation. He has no time to whine about his misfortunes. He's on duty. Watching for suspicious characters, tracking any large groups or gatherings. A scout, a spy, black ops recon surveillance like Goddamn kick-ass James Bond but fuck's sake there's a lot of smoke and cinders and he needs to cough or sneeze. He doesn't care if it gives away his position. Nobody's having meetings in the middle of the park on a Tuesday night anyway.
With a noisy and violent exhalation, Deus manages to cough and sneeze simultaneously. He hates the Resistance. |
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Post by korrigan1 on Dec 18, 2010 21:50:40 GMT -5
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Post by deus incognito on Dec 19, 2010 19:10:09 GMT -5
It nearly gives Deus a heart attack when he hears a voice down by his ankles. His hand jolts to his pocket and a switchblade is drawn and flicked open in a blur of pale flesh and cold silver. A series of words come hissing out of the prone figure's mouth, but Deus is too busy freaking the hell out to listen. He drops to his knees and forcibly pushes at the figure, grabbing at his shoulder with one hand and brandishing the knife at him menacingly.
Once Deus calms down a second, however, he realises that this young man is - as far as he can see - an unarmed civilian. He wears none of the armor and occasional war paint of a resistance member, no ridiculous macho "army" gear like members of the military, no government insignia. However, this does not mean he's safe. In fact, if he really is a civilian, he's obviously psychotic. Why else would he be out here in the dark when Resistance raids are obviously going on just over the rise.
However, duty takes precedence over swearing - a fact Deus is constantly forgetting - so the first thing that comes out of his mouth is not the impulsive "what the fucking fuck," but rather a brisk, "Are you on the ground because you're injured? Name and station. And one reason I should trust you, not stab you." His mouth is an unhappy grimace; his ideal night does not involve kneeling on the damp ground facing possible bloodshed.
He eases up on the younger man, anyway. He's probably scared enough. He keeps the knife tightly in his hand, ready for any funny business, every muscle tensed and ready for a tussle. He casts a quick eyes over the features of his captive. Brown hair, brain eyes, well-built. He feel strong biceps under his hand and knows that if this kid wants to wrestle, he's got a pretty good chance of winning. Vaguely, Deus wonders why he isn't in the military. What a waste of young, restless power.
In the distance, the crackle and boom of a wood house giving way under the destructive heat of a fire echoes against the walls of neighbouring houses. Muttering a curse under his breath, Deus tugs lightly on their shoulder he's still clutching and starts to move slowly backwards into the cover of a nearby bush. He's aware his movements mimic those of a mentally disabled crab, but right now is not the time to laugh. Those insane sons of bitches are getting closer, by the sound of it. |
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Post by korrigan1 on Dec 19, 2010 19:58:29 GMT -5
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Post by deus incognito on Dec 19, 2010 22:21:19 GMT -5
At the sound of a clearly frightened voice - although it is obvious Deus's "nemesis" is trying his best to keep that a secret - Deus feels regret for, well, scaring the frilly knickers of the younger guy. With a sigh he closes the knife and releases his grip. He's not surprised to find that the kid's just a regular citizen, innocently taking a stroll in the darkness of a warzone. A regular complete loony normal citizen. Well, it takes all kinds of people to build a civilization. Surely the madmen have just as big a part as aggressive, ambitious... uh, he isn't sure how to finish that sentence. How exactly should he describe himself?
Not important right now, anyway. Maybe he'll think about it when he's supposed to be sleeping but he's actually being kept awake by the comings and goings of a nomad race of human beings and distant gunshots. He'll also wonder, at that point, how long it'll be before they run out of ammo, with all the factories closed down. He'll wonder how future generations will manage to survive, whether he'll be expected to contribute to the future generation. If he's asked to bear a kid, God knows he won't want to help raise it. Nurture is not a word you would associate with Deus.
But his thoughts are wandering, aimless as the motes of dust that drift on the wind and fall like snow in the pale light of a far-off street light; one of the few whose bulbs weren't shattered. Some of the power's still online - the generators are underground, after all. It's the lines that are destroyed. Deus has got big plans for the remaining energy sources. It occurs to him that it's strange how easily his mind is distracted despite his continued entaglement with the younger man. And gosh, if that thought doesn't jolt him back to the present and send him stumbling backwards to put a good five feet between them. He doesn't want to get caught cuddling with anyone, let alone a male, let alone a practical child, without reason.
It must be sleep deprivation. The adrenaline's fading from his system after the few seconds of panic and the exhaustion's seeping in to fill up the spaces left behind. Deus runs his eyes over the figure in front of him. Now that they're straightened up, with a reasonable distance between them, the situation seems easier to assess. "What are you doing out here? You may or may not have noticed, but there's raiding parties out tonight. Just over that hill, by the sound of it." He cocks an eyebrow, trying to relax and at the same time trying to hold onto the last vestiges of energy, even if they are the hyperactive jolts of fight or flight instinct.
"Oh. I guess you're wondering who the hell I am." There's a tight little smile, devoid of amusement. "Well, actually, I'm not sure how to introduce myself. You can call me whatever you want, darlin', because I don't give a shit. Most people? They call me Deus. Know what that means? Latin for God. Remember it, son, it'll come in handy. I ain't one of the Resistance psychos, either, so you can relax. Government. Out to protect the civilians, actually, so you're in luck. Although I s'pose you don't feel like it. Sorry for scarin' the shit out of you. Pays to be paranoid these days." The speech is a careful monotone, although lent a personality by the snagging drawl of a born-and-bred Southerner.
The pet names, the accent so reminscent of friendly country bumpkins, it makes it hard to believe that Deus was just inches from killing the younger man a few seconds ago. It makes it hard to believe that he's a hard-ass, trigger-happy man with highly questionable morals. He smiles a little at his new acquaintance, all teeth. |
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Post by korrigan1 on Dec 19, 2010 23:34:30 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • [/font] [/center] [/SIZE] [/ul] • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • [/font][/center] [/SIZE] - - - deus notes; - - - phew. XD that was fun. word count; - - - 759 lyrics; Ungodly Hour | The Fray thanks; NIKE @ CAUTION 2.0[/color] [/ul] |
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Post by deus incognito on Dec 19, 2010 23:57:09 GMT -5
He can't help the snort that escapes him, although he doesn't really see any reason for propriety in this situation. Seriously, nostalgic reasons? The bombs have clearly addled this kid's brain. A shame, really. There just aren't enough people left in the world to have half of them insane. He sneers a little bit, and voices his thoughts callously: "Oh yeah? Remembering strolls through the park with mama? Or maybe picking flowers for your lady friend? I can see why you came at night, then. It's hard to delude yourself when you can clearly see the ashes and rubble and the goddamn shadows of the people who got caught by an a-bomb." He's being unnecessarily cruel, he's aware; there's challenge in his eyes. He's sizing up the man in front of him, testing the waters.
It's probably not the right place or time for it, though. He's reminded of their precarious situation when he hears a man shout, just over the summit of the hill. His eyes narrow, but he's not too concerned. Not yet. His hand does move casually to the pocket that his knife is in, resting reassuringly against his thigh through the thin fabric of his coat. "We should probably think about getting out of here," he says. He's not sure why he says "we" -- it seems he's somehow gotten it into his head that getting this kid, lunatic or not, out of this mess safely. He curls his lip at this matronly thought, and pushes it away with general gruffness.
It's difficult though. He likes the defensive way the young man speaks, the way he fights to put Deus in his place. He smiles (his shark-like, not-really-a-smile) despite himself, despite his attempt to be manly and detatched. He's surprised when he's asked if he has back-up, almost startled enough to laugh, albeit grimly. He avoids it, instead raising an eyebrow. "You don't know a lot about the new "government," do you, kid?" He asks. "They woke me up three hours ago and told me I had to be in the park in five minutes, 'cause Pete was puking in the trashcan and the Resistance was causing some kind of ruckus and nobody else could be bothered to get here. Fuck, no, I don't got back-up. I don't even have my shotgun." He raises his jacket to show the lack of a gun tucked into his belt.
Then he glances around with sudden caution, and steps out of the dead, leafless bush. It was lucky its branches were so thick. He takes a few steps toward the residential area, then pauses and glances back at the boy who he's started considering his charge, or something like that. "Where are you going? You know, to sleep or whatever. Write poetry about your dead friends? Letters to your girlfriend's corpse?" He smiles cruelly.
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Post by korrigan1 on Dec 20, 2010 12:46:02 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • [/font] [/center] [/SIZE] [/ul] • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • [/font][/center] [/SIZE] - - - deus notes; - - - deus. XD such a creeper. word count; - - - 492 lyrics; Ungodly Hour | The Fray thanks; NIKE @ CAUTION 2.0[/color] [/ul] |
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Post by deus incognito on Dec 20, 2010 19:49:02 GMT -5
A gruff laugh fell from Deus's lips as he turned away from the younger man, facing the wide roads that led away from the park. They were laced with cracks that formed inconsistent patterns, webs designed by a mad spider. He kicks at a pebble absently, aware of danger and yet detached from it. He figures he simply no longer has the energy to worry about death. Of course, he doesn't believe he'll be killed, really. He knows he's invincible. So what if they've got guns and he's only got a knife? He'll kick their asses anyway. After all, they are completely delusional. They have no grasp of reality. And he's fully capable of using that to his advantage.
He's not so sure about his young friend, though. A dark eyebrow climbs his forehead. "Safer? I bet. Kid, every nook and cranny you see and think, 'that would be a great hiding place,' has been looked at with exactly the same idea by at least ten other people. Sure, the night keeps them from seeing you, but you also can't see them, can you? You also can't see the uneven ground that'll trip you up when you're running for life, can't see the trap, the ambush, won't get out alive. You know, you seemed like a smart kid before. I'm starting to doubt that." He's smiling to himself, deriving endless amounts of pleasure from his mockery.
The defensiveness of the younger man only makes him determined to knock him off his little pedastal. His eyes light up in amusement when he mentions the efficiency, or lack-there-of, of the new government. He grins toothily and says, "I hate to shit on your naive little dreams, boy-o, but humanity's not gonna change just 'cause some wacko dropped some bombs on us and hurt our feelings. The people who are seeking power right now? They're the exact same as the politicians of yore, which I believe I can say correctly since they're all dead. You wanna change it? Sign up. Make your own goddamn perfect world. That why I joined up - I'm not gonna put up with the same old bullshit. Y'understand?"
He can feel the civilian following him out into the open, feeling slightly satisfied that he's in charge despite anything that's said out loud. He's told quite assuredly that his help is no longer needed, which strikes him as funny, particularly given what he's said, but he doesn't argue with it. The following remark, however, does not go unheeded. "I've already gone above and beyond the call of duty here tonight, my friend. Most of the bastards would have run as soon as they heard the Resistance group coming. Me, I've been counting voices, categorizing them - young and old, male and female. I've dredged up more useful intel in three hours than we've gotten over the course of the past week. And now, I'm going back to those ungrateful, dirty bastards, and I'll put up with it all because that's all we fucking have left. We can afford to fight and blame. We've scraped the bottoms of the barrel and come up short. We're dealing with the pieces no one ever wanted. Malformed, undergrown; physically, mentally, morally. And nobody can say no. This is all we have."
He glances back to see the kid's face. He wants to watch it sink in. Or see him reject it, see him get mad, defend the dregs of the human race. But something else catches his gaze, and suddenly he's running. He passes by the boy without explanation, races across an open area of grass. He hears a shout, knows he's been seen, but he can't manage to give a fuck. Because there, under a crumbled stone bench, he's found salvation. He's discovered ambrosia. He will never hate or love again. A pack of cigarettes. He scoops them up with reverence, cradling the package in his hands like a newborn child. He could stand there the rest of his life in complete bliss, just reading the surgeon general's warning.
But a gunshot makes him jump, and reminds him where he is. The bullet was way off, but they'll get more accurate as the enemy gets closer. He wonders if the boy's run yet, and sets of at sprint back to where they'd been hidden, hoping to catch him again. Worst coming to worst, he'll follow him home.
After all, he doesn't even know the guy's name yet. |
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Post by korrigan1 on Dec 20, 2010 21:37:06 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • [/font] [/center] [/SIZE] [/ul] • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • [/font][/center] [/SIZE] - - - deus notes; - - - run! runnnnn! word count; - - - 887 lyrics; Ungodly Hour | The Fray thanks; NIKE @ CAUTION 2.0[/color] [/ul] |
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Post by deus incognito on Dec 22, 2010 16:21:15 GMT -5
"My point exactly," Deus says, but his voice is quieter now. "Politics, the government - it all needs to change. It didn't work last time. We've been given the chance to try again. Don't you want to be part of founding a utopia?" He's aware that now he's the one who sounds naive. But Deus has never been good at living by his own principles.
Is he honest? He honestly doesn't know. What has he said that is true, or untrue? He supposes that in this conversation, he's been completely, brutally honest. He hasn't made any excuses for himself to make a friend, or to impress, and it shows. He can tell that the other man has lost all regard for him, despite Deus's own feeling of ironic camaraderie toward the other. But neither is he worried; he's conceited enough to believe that the kid will come around. Learn to cherish a bit of cold, hard, uncensored reality.
Deus can feel that his disrespect for his own organization has finally pushed his companion to the brink, forced him to spit out what he really thinks of Deus. He smiles ruefully at the attack on his own ethics, and falters in his response. What can he say? It seems redundant to once again reveal that morality is subjective and optional. Just because this guy thinks it's his duty to uphold the righteousness of mankind doesn't mean anyone at all will agree with him, or make his job any easier. In the end he stays silent, turns slightly away. Perhaps it's just another story, for another time.
And before he's thought of anything, anyway, he's off running. His mind is on something completely different. He's leaving the kid behind... Only to rejoin him in a matter of minutes. As he returns to the push, he feels a panicked grasp on his shoulder, a reflection of his own earlier actions, and feels himself being pulled toward somewhere "safe."
The pace has been set to suit a younger man, and it's too fast but unopposable. His ears are filled with the rushing of the wind and the noise of igniting gunpowder, and all he can see in his head are fireworks. His heart pounds and he wonders if it'll explode, wonders if he'll go to hell when it does, tries to remember when he stopped fearing death.
It's the vision of a flickering neon sign, clinging desperately to life amidst the technological decay around it, that brings back a lucid consciousness. With sudden force he takes charge, using the grip on his shoulder to drag his companion on a sharp left turn. He doesn't know if the other man lets go or hangs on, but he does know that he's going the right way, just steps away from safety.
His legs ache beneath him but his feet continue to pound against the pavement. He takes another left turn, then follows the line of a fence until he reaches a gap in the wood. He ducks through, splashes across a shallow puddle, and winds up at the base of an apartment building, one of the last still standing tall. He does not hesitate before running inside and taking refuge behind the first open door.
Here he stops, and looks around for the kid. He's dizzy from over-exertion, considering puking, sweating like he hasn't since he got to Ridgewood. He doesn't even have enough breath to swear. He doesn't know if he'd be in ecstasy or in anger, anyway. He's got a packet of cigarettes nestled in his pockets and he's escaped death. But he also feels sick and tired and wants nothing more than to sit down and never move again. |
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Post by korrigan1 on Dec 22, 2010 22:46:20 GMT -5
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • [/font] [/center] [/SIZE] [/ul] • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • [/font][/center] [/SIZE] - - - deus notes; - - - sy. always thinking with your stomach. hahaha. word count; - - - 856 lyrics; Ungodly Hour | The Fray thanks; NIKE @ CAUTION 2.0[/color] [/ul] |
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