Forsythe
KreinDone, just added some newlines for legibility's sake.
Kaithas
Member
One Jump Man
Status
Recent Statuses
5 yrs ago
Bless my soul, Herc was on a roll.
3
likes
7 yrs ago
"One could argue your entire life is garbage." -my organic chemistry professor
7
likes
7 yrs ago
my life is a sitcom. and not one with very good dialogue
6
likes
8 yrs ago
you people are feeding my problem XD
6
likes
8 yrs ago
I've got this obsession of having all the statuses on my profile page with more than 2 likes. I know that when the wailing winds of darkness come for me, these thumbs up will keep them away!
4
likes
Bio
Hey, I'm Kaithas. I'm still alive.
Most Recent Posts
"Hey, I think it's fine. This entire mess could be so much worse."
Name: Brandi Michaels
Appearance:
Age: 19, thank you very much for asking!
Instrument(s): She can play the harmonica. And isn't too bad at rap. Nothing worthy of being on stage, though. Co-manager, takes care of most of planning, scheduling... The nonmusic side of things.
Description: Fairly chipper and laid back, Brandi's generally an easy person to have around. To say she's outgoing isn't exactly right--she's perfectly willing to talk to others, but doesn't seek it out. Nor does she seek being alone, either. She's generally in the moment, conscious of what's going on around her more than whatever else might be going on in the brain of the youngest Michaels sibling.
It's often said, however, that what truly defines a person is how they act in times of crisis. And as the scheduler, planner, and day-to-day manager of a fledging band, there are a LOT of crises. When the pressure's on, Brandi's mind refocuses to a nearly scary degree, rearranging time and resources to an extent that would utterly surprise any teacher who had the rather lackadaisical girl in high school. The only outward indication of the intensity of her thought is the fingers of her right hand--when thinking, her second knuckle on each finger bend and unbend in a pattern that only really makes sense to her, before abruptly stopping when she reaches her final conclusion. It's a nervous tick. Whatever.
That's not her only function in the band, however. In a group of artistic, emotionally fluctuating and unfiltered individuals, Brandi's a rock. Igneous, to be exact. Nothing fazes her too much. Occasionally peeks of vulnerability show through, but they're few and far between unless you really know her. For the most part, she's a constant, sturdy companion, willing ear and willing shoulder. Being easygoing and generally positive can have its perks.
Favourite Genre(s)/Band(s): Classic Rock, some Alternative. Scottish Pirate Metal, though she could just be making that up.
Brief Backstory: Brandi's the youngest of 3 siblings, and the daughter of Scott Charley and Ginny Michaels. She graduated from the same high school as everyone else, though her personality and general attitude made her fly under the radar of most of her fellow students as anything more than a peripheral acquaintance. She's never come off as the most responsible individual, but she seems to have an uncanny knack for time management.
Miscellaneous Info:
She sang in the talent show in middle school and was actually pretty good. Hasn't sung for years as far as anyone knows.
Always sat in the exact middle of every class she was in.
Never speaks too loudly.
Can drive stick. Which would help, if anyone had a van.
Name: Brandi Michaels
Appearance:
Age: 19, thank you very much for asking!
Instrument(s): She can play the harmonica. And isn't too bad at rap. Nothing worthy of being on stage, though. Co-manager, takes care of most of planning, scheduling... The nonmusic side of things.
Description: Fairly chipper and laid back, Brandi's generally an easy person to have around. To say she's outgoing isn't exactly right--she's perfectly willing to talk to others, but doesn't seek it out. Nor does she seek being alone, either. She's generally in the moment, conscious of what's going on around her more than whatever else might be going on in the brain of the youngest Michaels sibling.
It's often said, however, that what truly defines a person is how they act in times of crisis. And as the scheduler, planner, and day-to-day manager of a fledging band, there are a LOT of crises. When the pressure's on, Brandi's mind refocuses to a nearly scary degree, rearranging time and resources to an extent that would utterly surprise any teacher who had the rather lackadaisical girl in high school. The only outward indication of the intensity of her thought is the fingers of her right hand--when thinking, her second knuckle on each finger bend and unbend in a pattern that only really makes sense to her, before abruptly stopping when she reaches her final conclusion. It's a nervous tick. Whatever.
That's not her only function in the band, however. In a group of artistic, emotionally fluctuating and unfiltered individuals, Brandi's a rock. Igneous, to be exact. Nothing fazes her too much. Occasionally peeks of vulnerability show through, but they're few and far between unless you really know her. For the most part, she's a constant, sturdy companion, willing ear and willing shoulder. Being easygoing and generally positive can have its perks.
Favourite Genre(s)/Band(s): Classic Rock, some Alternative. Scottish Pirate Metal, though she could just be making that up.
Brief Backstory: Brandi's the youngest of 3 siblings, and the daughter of Scott Charley and Ginny Michaels. She graduated from the same high school as everyone else, though her personality and general attitude made her fly under the radar of most of her fellow students as anything more than a peripheral acquaintance. She's never come off as the most responsible individual, but she seems to have an uncanny knack for time management.
Miscellaneous Info:
She sang in the talent show in middle school and was actually pretty good. Hasn't sung for years as far as anyone knows.
Always sat in the exact middle of every class she was in.
Never speaks too loudly.
Can drive stick. Which would help, if anyone had a van.
"Hey, I think it's fine. This entire mess could be so much worse."
Name: Brandi Michaels
Appearance:
Age: 19, thank you very much for asking!
Instrument(s): She can play the harmonica. And isn't too bad at rap. Nothing worthy of being on stage, though. Co-manager, takes care of most of planning, scheduling... The nonmusic side of things.
Description: Fairly chipper and laid back, Brandi's generally an easy person to have around. To say she's outgoing isn't exactly right--she's perfectly willing to talk to others, but doesn't seek it out. Nor does she seek being alone, either. She's generally in the moment, conscious of what's going on around her more than whatever else might be going on in the brain of the youngest Michaels sibling.
It's often said, however, that what truly defines a person is how they act in times of crisis. And as the scheduler, planner, and day-to-day manager of a fledging band, there are a LOT of crises. When the pressure's on, Brandi's mind refocuses to a nearly scary degree, rearranging time and resources to an extent that would utterly surprise any teacher who had the rather lackadaisical girl in high school. The only outward indication of the intensity of her thought is the fingers of her right hand--when thinking, her second knuckle on each finger bend and unbend in a pattern that only really makes sense to her, before abruptly stopping when she reaches her final conclusion. It's a nervous tick. Whatever.
That's not her only function in the band, however. In a group of artistic, emotionally fluctuating and unfiltered individuals, Brandi's a rock. Igneous, to be exact. Nothing fazes her too much. Occasionally peeks of vulnerability show through, but they're few and far between unless you really know her. For the most part, she's a constant, sturdy companion, willing ear and willing shoulder. Being easygoing and generally positive can have its perks.
Favourite Genre(s)/Band(s): Classic Rock, some Alternative. Scottish Pirate Metal, though she could just be making that up.
Brief Backstory: Brandi's the youngest of 3 siblings, and the daughter of Scott Charley and Ginny Michaels. She graduated from the same high school as everyone else, though her personality and general attitude made her fly under the radar of most of her fellow students as anything more than a peripheral acquaintance. She's never come off as the most responsible individual, but she seems to have an uncanny knack for time management.
Miscellaneous Info:
She sang in the talent show in middle school and was actually pretty good. Hasn't sung for years as far as anyone knows.
Always sat in the exact middle of every class she was in.
Never speaks too loudly.
Can drive stick. Which would help, if anyone had a van.
Name: Brandi Michaels
Appearance:
Age: 19, thank you very much for asking!
Instrument(s): She can play the harmonica. And isn't too bad at rap. Nothing worthy of being on stage, though. Co-manager, takes care of most of planning, scheduling... The nonmusic side of things.
Description: Fairly chipper and laid back, Brandi's generally an easy person to have around. To say she's outgoing isn't exactly right--she's perfectly willing to talk to others, but doesn't seek it out. Nor does she seek being alone, either. She's generally in the moment, conscious of what's going on around her more than whatever else might be going on in the brain of the youngest Michaels sibling.
It's often said, however, that what truly defines a person is how they act in times of crisis. And as the scheduler, planner, and day-to-day manager of a fledging band, there are a LOT of crises. When the pressure's on, Brandi's mind refocuses to a nearly scary degree, rearranging time and resources to an extent that would utterly surprise any teacher who had the rather lackadaisical girl in high school. The only outward indication of the intensity of her thought is the fingers of her right hand--when thinking, her second knuckle on each finger bend and unbend in a pattern that only really makes sense to her, before abruptly stopping when she reaches her final conclusion. It's a nervous tick. Whatever.
That's not her only function in the band, however. In a group of artistic, emotionally fluctuating and unfiltered individuals, Brandi's a rock. Igneous, to be exact. Nothing fazes her too much. Occasionally peeks of vulnerability show through, but they're few and far between unless you really know her. For the most part, she's a constant, sturdy companion, willing ear and willing shoulder. Being easygoing and generally positive can have its perks.
Favourite Genre(s)/Band(s): Classic Rock, some Alternative. Scottish Pirate Metal, though she could just be making that up.
Brief Backstory: Brandi's the youngest of 3 siblings, and the daughter of Scott Charley and Ginny Michaels. She graduated from the same high school as everyone else, though her personality and general attitude made her fly under the radar of most of her fellow students as anything more than a peripheral acquaintance. She's never come off as the most responsible individual, but she seems to have an uncanny knack for time management.
Miscellaneous Info:
She sang in the talent show in middle school and was actually pretty good. Hasn't sung for years as far as anyone knows.
Always sat in the exact middle of every class she was in.
Never speaks too loudly.
Can drive stick. Which would help, if anyone had a van.
Yeah, that's a okay by me!
As sad as I am to ditch this quote:
"I'm telling you, man. Woodwinds, they're where it's at. We ain't got Keith Moon, and we sure as hell don't have Jimmy Hendrix--No offense there, Marcus--Who would remember Baker Street if it weren't for the saxophone solo? That's right, no one. Also... that's the only instrument I got. Oh, and a harmonica."
As sad as I am to ditch this quote:
"I'm telling you, man. Woodwinds, they're where it's at. We ain't got Keith Moon, and we sure as hell don't have Jimmy Hendrix--No offense there, Marcus--Who would remember Baker Street if it weren't for the saxophone solo? That's right, no one. Also... that's the only instrument I got. Oh, and a harmonica."
That's actually what I was about to suggest. Brandi's laid back and chipper, but tends to be practical and kind of down to earth. Supposed to be kinda a rock for other people, so I figured that would work in a supportive role.
I was working on a woodwind (saxophone)/harmonica player, but I guess I'll shift her over to a manager if that's alright with @Cairo. Character works either way.
IC: Amaranth Desire, Realizing a Physics Class Might Exist
…
So if you’d asked her a week ago, Amy would say that she didn’t understand Dust at all. The Fury didn’t use it anywhere in its construction, her Semblance was entirely independent of its usage--at least for now, she’d get back to that topic later--and she generally just figured it was some level of bull#### stacked on top of something resembling science.
Then she’d had to make the Crimson Angel armor.
Now, she still had next to no understanding of Dust theory, but she knew something about its application. It was akin to a car mechanic, she supposed, who didn’t know the physics behind the explosion of gasoline in an internal combustion engine, but nevertheless knew how to fix one.
Still, she’d rather know that theory. It’d probably help a lot.
She’d been kinda out of it until Lauren had slammed her backpack into the chair next to her, still a little on the football game previous. Amy had changed out of her PE outfit back into the closest semblance of a uniform she had, her blazier over a somewhat tight-fitting t-shirt with the image of a divergent lens on it. Her lips opened, as if to speak--
"Yoooo, no way," Lauren whistled, her voice a breathy whisper that carried to her assembled friends. "No fucking shit. Aaaaaaaaah. This little bitch helped me know I was gay."
There was no way she could follow that. Nor Teàrlag’s demonstration.
She raised her hand as a volunteer for the follow up, her eyes straight forward, on her teacher.
What?
It didn’t matter who had volunteered first. Not at all.
IC: Rowan Iderson
The first actual class day of Aura Control was always Rowan’s least favorite. Whether a fault in her understanding of Aura or as an inherent difficulty of the subject, she never really found that a traditional classroom was too… encouraging of her particular study of the craft. That was why she taught the majority of the class either outside or in the gym--that, and that getting students to focus on classroom learning in the final period of the day tended to be difficult at best. Still, demonstrations like the one she and Esther had performed a week ago were flashy but didn’t actually teach much, and a few days in the classroom tended to form the backbone of what would come after.
A few were generally all that were necessary. These were seniors--they tended to have the basics already down. The ex-soldier was already at the blackboard, a piece of chalk in hand as she wrote the date in the upper left corner, using a lazy but legible print. “Alright, everyone,” Rowan said, turning to face the classroom.” Most of you’ve been here long enough that you should know who I am--but given exactly how much of a class turnover we have, I s’pose I should introduce myself anyway. I’m Rowan Iderson, and this is Aura Control. If you’re in the wrong place, you should probably get to where you’re s’posed t’be.”
She raised her eyebrows for a moment, appraising the class to see if anyone moved. She shrugged when no one did, her eyes glowing amber briefly as she flicked the piece of chalk upward with her thumb, flipping and spiraling before clattering to a perfect landing on the bottom sill of the blackboard.
“I don’t exaggerate when I say that this class’ll save your life more than nearly any other. Weapons fail. We’ve not documented all of the Grimm. No matter how much I love ‘em, tactics and maneuvering can become impossible or ineffective. At the end of the day, you’ll reach a point where all you’ve got to rely on is you. And in those situations, your Aura, your conditioning, and your intellect constitute everything you’ve got. Soul, body, and mind.”
A sigh left her lips, her thumbs sticking in the loops of her belt. “With that, Aura Control ultimately comes down to what you’re willing to put into it. We’ll have exams after a fashion, but this class is primarily a participation grade. I’d rather you actually learn how to protect yourself than to be able to write an essay on the origins of Aura theory. We work on an alternating schedule, with each classroom day setting up the following day’s applied exercises. I’ve already sent the syllabus to your scrolls, so with all that taken care of I’d like to get into the lesson for today, which is on methods for reducing Aura damage through psychological minimization of threats. Any questions, before I continue?”
…
So if you’d asked her a week ago, Amy would say that she didn’t understand Dust at all. The Fury didn’t use it anywhere in its construction, her Semblance was entirely independent of its usage--at least for now, she’d get back to that topic later--and she generally just figured it was some level of bull#### stacked on top of something resembling science.
Then she’d had to make the Crimson Angel armor.
Now, she still had next to no understanding of Dust theory, but she knew something about its application. It was akin to a car mechanic, she supposed, who didn’t know the physics behind the explosion of gasoline in an internal combustion engine, but nevertheless knew how to fix one.
Still, she’d rather know that theory. It’d probably help a lot.
She’d been kinda out of it until Lauren had slammed her backpack into the chair next to her, still a little on the football game previous. Amy had changed out of her PE outfit back into the closest semblance of a uniform she had, her blazier over a somewhat tight-fitting t-shirt with the image of a divergent lens on it. Her lips opened, as if to speak--
"Yoooo, no way," Lauren whistled, her voice a breathy whisper that carried to her assembled friends. "No fucking shit. Aaaaaaaaah. This little bitch helped me know I was gay."
There was no way she could follow that. Nor Teàrlag’s demonstration.
She raised her hand as a volunteer for the follow up, her eyes straight forward, on her teacher.
What?
It didn’t matter who had volunteered first. Not at all.
IC: Rowan Iderson
The first actual class day of Aura Control was always Rowan’s least favorite. Whether a fault in her understanding of Aura or as an inherent difficulty of the subject, she never really found that a traditional classroom was too… encouraging of her particular study of the craft. That was why she taught the majority of the class either outside or in the gym--that, and that getting students to focus on classroom learning in the final period of the day tended to be difficult at best. Still, demonstrations like the one she and Esther had performed a week ago were flashy but didn’t actually teach much, and a few days in the classroom tended to form the backbone of what would come after.
A few were generally all that were necessary. These were seniors--they tended to have the basics already down. The ex-soldier was already at the blackboard, a piece of chalk in hand as she wrote the date in the upper left corner, using a lazy but legible print. “Alright, everyone,” Rowan said, turning to face the classroom.” Most of you’ve been here long enough that you should know who I am--but given exactly how much of a class turnover we have, I s’pose I should introduce myself anyway. I’m Rowan Iderson, and this is Aura Control. If you’re in the wrong place, you should probably get to where you’re s’posed t’be.”
She raised her eyebrows for a moment, appraising the class to see if anyone moved. She shrugged when no one did, her eyes glowing amber briefly as she flicked the piece of chalk upward with her thumb, flipping and spiraling before clattering to a perfect landing on the bottom sill of the blackboard.
“I don’t exaggerate when I say that this class’ll save your life more than nearly any other. Weapons fail. We’ve not documented all of the Grimm. No matter how much I love ‘em, tactics and maneuvering can become impossible or ineffective. At the end of the day, you’ll reach a point where all you’ve got to rely on is you. And in those situations, your Aura, your conditioning, and your intellect constitute everything you’ve got. Soul, body, and mind.”
A sigh left her lips, her thumbs sticking in the loops of her belt. “With that, Aura Control ultimately comes down to what you’re willing to put into it. We’ll have exams after a fashion, but this class is primarily a participation grade. I’d rather you actually learn how to protect yourself than to be able to write an essay on the origins of Aura theory. We work on an alternating schedule, with each classroom day setting up the following day’s applied exercises. I’ve already sent the syllabus to your scrolls, so with all that taken care of I’d like to get into the lesson for today, which is on methods for reducing Aura damage through psychological minimization of threats. Any questions, before I continue?”
@Ookawa @Plank Sinatra @NarayanK
Oh, just when he needed it, someone appeared. Tanner supposed the gods were smiling on him that day, despite his murder of their “chosen servants.” If her seeming rudeness bothered him--or if he even noticed it--it didn’t show.
“Nah, I’m no teacher. I’m faculty… no, staff. That’s the one. I normally catch whatever Professor Port needs for Grimm studies, do other odd jobs, that kinda thing,” he responded, lazily extending a hand in offer to shake Blaire’s. “I’m Thomas Tanner. Most people just call me Tanner, but eh. Doesn’t matter much to me. But I can guide ya, wherever you’re headed to.”
He laughed, his unoccupied hand going behind his head to scratch it as he grinned. “That being said, without your name or class schedule I can’t help you that much. Who are you, and where are ya bound?”
"Blaire Dawn. Apparently I am headed for this... 'Practice' class."
Tanner nodded, as if given new understanding, letting go of her hand and holding up his index finger. “Aha! Alright, well, I’ll take you to it, you’re pretty much headed the wrong--”
"I guess I just need to make the best of it. Beacon has a good reputation and it seems like a nice place. And I've proven myself once, so I can do it again. And I get to start with 'Practice', which seems like it'll be easy enough. I just have to get over the hurdle of..."
The Huntsman pivoted on the balls of his feet, his mouth freezing open, continuing to face a young Faunus woman that walked past them, muttering to herself as though they didn’t exist, trying to find a break in her internal-monologue-gone-external to mention that it wasn’t an indoor class--
He sighed, taking a deep breath as she rounded the corner. “Come along, Miss Blaire, if you would. Let’s retrieve her, then I’ll take you both to class.”
The pair caught up to her, right as she walked into Band Practice. Thomas stuck his head in after her.
“Psst.”
Iona wheeled around on her feet, brought out of her monologue by a beckoning noise behind her. A man's head was peeking in the door at her. "Oh hello, did I do something wrong already?" she asked.
“Wrong Practice. I'll take you to the inexplicable one.”
"Oh, ok.”
Both students in tow, Tanner's boots tromped on through the school, out the back door and toward the Practice field. He had nothing better to do, in truth.
Not a moment too soon, either.
***
Rowan was not having the best teaching day, though otherwise it was shaping up to be pretty good. Little overcast, but warm enough, didn't seem to be threatening rain anytime soon. Good weather for Practice, which of course was not the class she was teaching today. Still, probably fortunate for Jericho’s first day of actually being faculty of a sort. Maneuvers in the rain were generally not a good spot to start things.
No, Rowan's issue mostly centered on her own lesson plan. Ordinarily she enjoyed teaching Aura Control--it was a small class of only seniors, most of whom knew what they were doing and were eager to learn. As eager as Beacon students about to graduate got, anyway. But then there were days like today. Days where she had to try to codify her understanding of Aura into words and theory rather than feelings and practice.
She'd give everyone a few more minutes to get here. Jericho was nowhere to be found, yet, anyway, and there had been a lot of turnover over the weekend.
At least Tanner had been kind enough to gather up the two never-been-to-a-Beacon-class-before students for her. As the scruffy man walked away, Blaire and Iona were greeted by an auburn-haired, fit Atlesian woman walking toward them with something of a military bearing, tapping on the Scroll on her wrist cuff to dismiss it.
“Iona Murasaki, Blaire Dawn, allow me to be the first faculty member to welcome you to Beacon. I'm Professor Iderson, your Practice teacher. I regret that I don't have time to conduct orientation or go over the class syllabus with you right now, but if you need anything afterward feel free to ask me. In the meantime--”
The ex-soldier raised her voice, turning back to the class at large. “As you arrive on the field, please separate yourselves into seniors and freshmen. I'll be teaching Aura Control today for the seniors, Jericho Piper will be conducting Practice. You have a few minutes, talk amongst yourselves if you're inclined.”
I’m a new soul, I came to this strange world, hoping I could learn a bit about how to give and take.
Tanner took a drag off his cigarette, his boots thumping against the stone floor of the cavern. The ember glowed a little brighter as he inhaled, illuminating the cave walls in spiraling orange. Skypiercer was loose in his left hand, occasionally flicking left and right in easy swipes to swat away smaller Grimm.
He came by a side passage, the tromp of his boots pausing as he looked down it--the marks of tooling were obvious on the sides, not a natural cave like the rest of this place. He took one more drag off his cigarette, glancing down as it reached the filter. The Hunter rolled his eyes, throwing it on the ground and grinding it out on the stone floor.
These things always took too long. And knowing his luck, they’d get dragged out yet longer by whatever stupidity they had planned for him at the end of this tunnel.
But since I came here, felt the joy and the fear, found myself making every possible mistake.
He hummed softly as he continued on, his eyes glowing softly red. The pack of cigarettes found their way out of his pocket, one carefully extending and sticking in the corner of his mouth. He didn’t light it yet--no reason to spook his prey of sorts. He’d read the file on this mess--usual stuff, in all honesty, bunch of kooky people who had gathered around some Grausam class Grimm and were worshipping it. Ordinarily that was a self-rectifying issue--Grimm cared about as much for their human and Faunus allies as they did for their enemies--but these particular loons had found an Infernal Argus. Which was an issue. Because the damn thing was likely to just sit there and sleep until something irritated it, at which point it would become a Horrible Problem. And cultists had a way of being irritating.
La-la la la, la-la-la-la la la
Another pause in the steady procession of his boots, a slight glow coming from down the hall. His eyes flicked up to the ceiling of the cavern, Skypiercer following his gaze to the apex and knocking some dirt free--
Conduit. Fairly cleverly hidden under a dirty part of the ceiling, but once you’ve been to one evil cult cave hideout you’ve been to them all. Also helps when you have such an intimate familiarity with the leader of a particular band.
A click and his blade started to hum with electricity, then stabbed the cable--
And it all went dark.
***
William Essersmit was not having the best of days. Cult Security Breach #4 had happened, and by the looks of things this might be the last one. He’d gotten word through the usual channels that Beacon was sending some kind of Grimm expert out to deal with their little operation, and while that was easily enough dealt with… You didn’t kill a Hunter and remain inconspicuous.
Now that selfsame Hunter had managed to find their hideout and shut off the power with disturbing ease.
It was no matter. They had backup lighting and power would be back online as soon as the others could get the generator started. The Argus stood far behind him, motionless, their offerings heaped at its feet. The Hunter couldn’t be allowed to kill it while it slept, nor awaken it before the prophesied day.
The red glow of lighting didn’t really reach into the tunnel, William’s eyes straining to make out the form of the Hunter he knew had to be coming--he could hear the thump, thump, thump of boots.
Then it stopped, and a flame flickered to life in the tunnel, illuminating a man’s face, his eyes glowing red as he lit a cigarette, taking a single draw off of it while he put his lighter away, a grin coming to his face.
“I don’t suppose we could talk this out? I’d like to share the good word with ya, William.”
Essersmit was already in motion, his blade cleaving out for the Hunter’s neck, arm, side--and was met with a calm bend backward, step to the side, and deflection with the other man’s spear, each looking almost lazy and tired.
“Figures. Didn’t think you’d go for it, but still had to try.”
Tanner’s spear leapt up, its tip diving for William’s chest, twisting to the side as he tried to pivot away, the tip flaring to life with a concussive blast and slamming into his flesh--
His Aura rose to meet it--
”No, Will!” his sister’s voice called out, as the Griever ripped into her--
--and shattered, the blade piercing him deep. He fell to his knees on the cave floor, looking up with a snarl at the other man. To his surprise, the Hunter didn’t finish him, looking out across the cave, the glow of his eyes intensifying.
“Think my friend’ll take care of the rest of your little band o’ heathens. Can’t beat all of you at once, you know.”
A terrible grinding sound echoed through the cave, making the spatter of feet cease--and the Argus began to move. Its battle axe arose from the cave floor, light gleaming off the wicked edge.
Then the screams started. Stopped.
The grinding came closer.
And closer.
And stopped.
***
Tanner puffed again, looking up at the imposing monster of metal and hate looming over him, the eviscerated corpse of the cultist--William Essersmit, the file said--below it, providing a gruesome cushion for its horrible blade. He hated dealing with Argus, on the whole--he couldn’t really control them, just wake them up, calm them down a bit, and make them unconscious of his presence.
Luckily, this one seemed fairly young.
He started to hum again as he turned away and walked back down the tunnel, pausing once he reached daylight once more, his eyes looking over the assorted explosives he’d set at the entrance. Now that he knew where the Argus was, he could be certain it wouldn’t be disturbed by an explosion of the size he was intending. His fingers grasped the cigarette, lighting the fuse on the initial charge as he walked away.
A series of explosions rocked the cave entrance, sealing it forever.
Sure, an electronic detonator might be more practical. But you’d lose the style points.
***
Back at Beacon, the tromping of boots met linoleum floors. Mission complete.
Tanner stuck his hands in his coat pockets, looking up at the ceiling of the hall. Was odd he didn’t have to turn anything in this go round--normally he’d have something for Port. Still, he couldn’t complain. Less complicated, the better, especially for something that wasn't a usual mission. He was less “catch the bad guy”, more “catch the cool critter for class.”
Damn, he wish that Essersmit guy had been willing to talk. Introspection was only good for so long, then you wanted a conversation partner.
© 2007-2024