Blue Flaming Wings

The duo made their way across the windswept plains of the Fatala grasslands.

 

As they moved, Thargan eyed his companion - still a bit unsure of what to make of him. At the end of the previous fight he went in for the kill on the injured shrew, leaving the uninjured one to try to dart away. But given that Geraint was able to immediately chase it down and kill it anyway, the ork held off from saying anything, unsure if the lad just had a good grasp of his own abilities or just lucked out with his strikes. Either way, Thargan just gave Geraint a grim nod when he got back and the two headed off.

 

They continued to work their way southward on the Grandule River, weaving up slowly-slopping hills, past sandy shores with thin reeds sticking out from the waters, and under canopies of leaves of many colors as fall painted the forests on the banks in hues of oranges, reds and yellows.

 

It did not take long to find some prey.

 

…Just not the prey they expected.

 

A family of three Razorfangs huddled within the forest foliage, the baby just a tad taller than the mulch so it was clearly visible to the two hunters. Geraint drew his longass sword and approached. Thargan nodded as he circled around, saying, “Do not attack the child - Ravorfangs are overly protective in general. Try not to get ganged up on.”

 

While Geraint took a defensive stance in front of the father, Thargan moved towards the mother. If Geraint and Thargan took a parent a piece, there was little chance that either of them would face two Razorfangs at once … unless the baby Razorfang got in on the action.

 

Once Thargan was nearly outside striking range he unsheathed his handaxes.

 

Unsheathed them and swung.

 

He's a Pureblood. The way I understood it from the first post in the OOC is that Purebloods mutate and take on the powers of the mutant that bit them, while Immune's when they are bitten die if they are not immediately treated. It's not a random chance - it's a given. Unless, of course, I misunderstood and am tempting fate here.

 

Edit: I found the line: "In chapter two, non-fatal wounds will turn pure bloods into hybrids after three days." So whether he's bitten at the end of chapter 1 and becomes a hybrid at the start of chapter two or he's bitten sometime during chapter two - either way I would like for him to become a hybrid. It's kinda what I had in mind with him when I first developed the character. I was hoping to play with the "He Who Fights Monsters" trope - it just so happens that Winston took it a step further with the whole "pet" versus "feral" analogy. If the "automatic hybrid" rule is debunked then I may have made a tiny ittsy bitty mistake by putting Scott on Winston's radar.

It sounds to me that Strength is the general amount of power in your body while Heavy Blade (or Thargan's Dual-Wielding skill or Deirdre's Swordsmanship skill) indicates how well you use the weapon.

 

After all, it doesn't matter how strong your strikes are if you're not skillful enough to hit a powerful opponent.

 

Edit: If Geraint ever got into a bar brawl and hit an opponent with his bare fits then Heavy Blade wouldn't be factored in but Strength would be.

First order of business was to head to the hills.

 

Snapping shrews lived in the woodlands that dotted the Fatala grasslands. While they hungered for wheat, barley and other cash crops, their usual diets consisted of shrubbery that existed near streamlets. If they had come out in mass to plague the farms, a larger group of them would have gone to the wheat and maize fields to the west to the more fertile farmlands around the Grandule River, but at least a few would have lingered in the east to gnaw on the grasses there. Sure enough, as the duo rounded the crest of a hill they spotted four shrews in the valley below munching on some reeds by a stream.

 

Thargan turned his attention to Geraint and saw the man begin to charge.

 

What the hell are you doing! Thargan would have shouted it if it wouldn’t alert their prey. It seems that idea occurred to Geraint as well, since he slowed down and rested a handle on the pommel of his blade. Good a time as any Thargan guessed.

 

“Geraint. Snapping shews work well together in groups and panic when cornered. That’s why we gotta kill ‘em quick by flanking them on both sides. Keep an eye out for any that try to bolt.”

 

The kid seemed to get the message since he circled to the right. Thargan mirrored his movements to the left, so the four shrews were between the two of them. Then, the moment Thargan heard the stirring of the shrub from the other side, he burst out as Geraint did the same on the other side. He slammed both his axes down on a shrew, a bellow on his lips as they hacked the air.  

 

Thargan just scowled at the whole fucking scene unfolding in front of him. He didn't really expect anything else, but still he didn't assume they were about to lunge at him with a bad case of feral rabies. But the older girl seemed to think he would, given the way she protectively stood in front of the young noblewoman. Speaking of her, Thargan noticed that her hand reached for her hilt as well, but ... the motion lacked resolve. She was ... shit ... she was afraid. The only thing worse than a Manus disgusted by his presence was one that was terrified of him. Like hell, there's reasons to be terrified of me but wait until you see what I can do first.

Once Gorodir was done, the elder Arturi asked her trio if they were ready, but at the same time eyed Thargan and the countryhick. The boy nodded but Thargan just looked to the side and sighed. She wasn't asking us, fool. But the thought lacked any heat it would normally have. He was just tired of this. Tired of all this shit. He wanted to go out into the field and start killing things. Loudly.

While the younger Arturi seemed to banter on about the vermin (...she's truly unnerved by me, isn't she? No. Not me. Orks.) Thargan was stirred out of his thoughts by the most surprising event of the day.

"Name's Geraint!"

Thargan just stared. Stared at the Manus who approached amicably. Why? The question reverberated in Thargan's head, but then silenced when the boy had finished.

A beat of silence followed. It stretched to the point where Geraint would have been worried that the ork was rejecting him through the icy quiet, but then. Then he laughed. Thargan laughed like he hadn't in years, a noise that bubbled up from his gut and out his throat. When the laugh died down his face relaxed into a smirk - the closest thing he had to a smile. "You're an odd one, you know that ... Geraint, was it? You could have still tried your luck teaming up with those three," Thargan said, nodding his head over to the duo of noblewomen and their Qing companion. "But if you've made your choice, so be it." He jerked his thumb back to point at his chest. "Thargan."

The name would have struck a cord to most of them there. Even if they didn't know about the local legend around Tyger, they would surely recognize that it was a Manus name. Ork names tended to either have long syllables and odd accents, such as Bo'gra'za or are short and guttural like Grom or Gnash. Thargan would let them make of that as they wished.

..............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

OOC:

           He didn't take the roads because of shit like this.

 

           But the fat bastard that was his client had wanted to take the road. No. He demanded to take the road. For what godforsaken reason, Thargan had no clue, but the duo took the road to Silkrin in the early morning.

 

          The bandits attacked by midday.

 

          If he cut the merchant’s tendons and kicked him to the dirt in front of the bandits as a blubbery offering, Thargan might have gotten away. But the Assaulters condemnation of double crosses still haunted him even after a decade of scrapping by without them. Well, even if that hadn’t been the case, the sight of the chainmail-clad leader, on top a stallion with a giant sword strapped on his back and longbow in hand killed the notion of an escape dead in its tracks.

 

           Even if Thargan wasn't shot in the back the man could easily ride him down.

 

            So … no helping it.

 

            It should have gone smoothly. Hell, Thargan had unslung his crossbow from his shoulder and had been halfway to tossing it to the ground when he heard the call:

               

           “It’s him! The Assaulter!”

 

            Oh shit.

 

           Thargan dived to the side of the road, where the underbrush lay thick. The merchant never stood a chance. He just stared, terrified, confused and pissing his britches, as a hail of a dozen arrows sweep through the void of where Thargan once stood and riddled into his body.

 

           The ork burst out of the bush with a scream, hacking towards the body of one archer with his fine steel axe. One with engraved designs and swirls snaking up its shaft. Fancy, but hardy, which is all that he really gave a damn about when it came to weapons. The archer dodged and Thargan raised his second axe up when he felt a savage slice through his back. “Fucker!” Thargan screamed. He whirled around and swung. A swordsman. A swordsman with a damn shield, who got it up right in time for Thargan to chip some paint off it. The ork sneered, fangs jutting from his jaw, spittle flying into the man’s face, and then he struck. Once. Twice. Three times. Each time was a thump that pushed the swordsman back. Each time a scream that billowed out into the open road, “Die! Die! Die!”

 

            An arrow stabbed through his knee.

 

           Thargan staggered, which is just what the swordsman wanted. The bandit reared his hand up, blade to the air. Thargan sprung, one axe wedging into the arm. While the man screamed out an agonized howl, one that made Thargan scowl in displeasure, the other axe slammed into the man’s shield, pushing the him back and way. Thargan barely had time to jump back and get some distance, when he heard the whiz and then felt the pain – coursing through his arm.

 

           Another damn arrow.

 

           His world flared up, coated in a thick, blood red. Red. Then it froze.

 

           It had come: the Blue.

 

           It crept in at the edges as always. As the world froze in mid motion it came in, flooding away the Red, burying it under layer after layer of ice, like the ocean in the far north. Thargan felt in his gut a lingering, pulsating pain – a soft hum that shook through his body. Then the hum vanished, all sounds vanished. The stomps of hooves, the clang of metal, the yells from the bandits – all the noise just leaked away under the Blue.

 

           Thargan stood up.

 

          Thargan stood up and Thargan smiled.

 

          He felt his throat work and realized he was laughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed, but he laughed and he smiled and he dashed – running towards the earlier swordsman. His axe came crashing down. Where before he had only bit into the man’s arm, now he severed it, the man mouthing a noise once the hit struck. Then Thargan pivoted his second axe flashing out to burrow deep into the swordsman’s neck. The man fell and Thargan’s smile widened as the blood splashed onto his face.

 

          Then the chainmailed leader came out of nowhere and sliced open Thargan’s stomach with the huge sword.

 

          Thargan blinked, then the Blue shattered.

 

         “What the – ”

 

          Thargan slumped to his knees.

 

..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

         He woke up to the sight of a sheet.

 

        With wood paneling behind his back Thargan pushed away the pane of white and sat up. He had been laid on top of a horse drawn cart – though no horse was present at the moment. There wasn't a damn person anywhere, actually. A stretch of wood encompassed him on all sides, only the quiet noses of birds settling down to sleep or the chirps of crickets in the grasses could be heard. But Thargan knew that would only be for the moment. The bandits had captured him, he knew. Or rather, they planned to bring his “dead body” to the Firebloods. The moment he heard the name, “Assaulter”, Thargan knew that they were after the bounty on his head.

 

        How unlucky for them that their proof of death was just going to walk away.

 

        Thargan jumped out of the kart and discovered his next hurdle.

 

        He was naked.

 

       The bandits had taken his pouch of gold, his rations, his backpack and bedroll, his axes, his armor and even his very clothes.

 

       Well … that was just … well shit.

 

      The sound of crunching leaves made Thargan take cover behind the cart. One of the bandits he had spotted earlier, a youth who had likely just had his nameday party, walked into the clearing, buttoning up his pants. The boy didn’t have much on him, Thargan could tell, just his clothes, a pouch on his belt, and a chipped and rusted iron sword. But when the kid saw that the cart lay empty, the sheet sprawled on the forest floor, he unsheathed his blade and ran towards it.

 

     Then Thargan struck.

 

     He snapped out from behind the cart, one hand snaking up to the boy’s neck and the other grabbing the wrist of his swordarm, pressing them both down so the boy was thrust into the wood.

 

     “How … how are you still alive?” The kid choked out.

 

     “I do that. Now hand over your clothes and weapon and you won’t be hurt, brat.”

 

     “Like I believe that! You enjoy killing! You’ll beat me to death."

 

     “What the hell are you talking about?”

 

     “Back in the fight –”

 

     “That was a battle fury. All orks have them.”

 

     “Like hell they –”

 

     Thargan squeezed the kid’s neck and wrist. He did not drop the blade. “Last chance,” he said.

 

      The kid responded by jerking his swordhand up, breaking the grip. Thargan ducked out of the way as the sword swiped overhead, before hitting the steel wheel of the cart.

 

      Then the blade shattered.

 

      The kid barely had time to stare at the broken hilt when Thargan’s hand knifed him in the neck. Thargan caught the boy’s unconscious before he could smack against the ground.

 

      Thargan moved by root memory. Actions he has done dozens of times, but never with a living body before. He stripped the boy of his clothes, coin (the pouch only had a handful of gold, silver and copper in it – totaling to ten gold) and then held up the shattered sword to the moonlight. Thargan examined it a bit, turned it this way and that, before dropping it to the ground and kicking it under the cart. After that, he just wiggled into the pants and shirt, lifted the boy up into the cart, and covered his body with the white sheet.

 

      It would take an hour or so for the rest of the bandit camp to check on the new recruit on body guarding duty, but by that time Thargan would already be gone.

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      Silkrin.

 

       The small town stood before him. A walled city, like most in the Fatala grasslands, but an unguarded one. There were not many patrolling the walls, just another brat standing guard by the gate. The gate had already been risen for a different group entering into the village, and he just strolled right in – glaring at the boy as if to dare him to argue. The boy glared back, almost scoffing at the ork before turning to the group. Huh. Cheeky brat. Thargan’s first order of business – the bar. If he hadn’t been robbed blind, he’d see to it that he ended up piss drunk and bellowing throughout the room, but he didn’t have enough coin to be wasteful. No, he had another purpose entirely for going in.

             

      His mark sat in the corner of the tavern. Not clouded in shadow like they were about to make some sort of assassination contract, but merely a part, separate, from the milling crowds within the establishment. The crowd that darted glances in his direction as Thargan crossed the tavern, spun a chair around at the table his contact was at, and collapsed onto it, arms hanging off the back.

 

        “What’s with these hillbillies? Never seen an ork before?”

 

         “Yes.”

 

          Thargan’s mercenary contact was an elderly man, decked in steel armor, and had a warhammer propped against the table leg. He also had an insignia engraved in the left corner of the armor, over the heart, the sign of the Fatalan Contractual Registrar or FCR – the organization that categorized and registered all major mercenary companies within the grasslands. The guild set up their system like this: a contractor would come with a specific assignment and the Registrar would give them the list of companies that could fulfill their needs within a set price range. Individual freelance mercs being the cheapest with expansive companies ranging from the hundred to thousand range.

 

         “What happened to Gredric Ishdale?”

 

         “That’s what the fatass’ name was?”

 

          “Yes. I take it that the assignment failed?”

 

          “Yeah, it fucking failed. We were ambushed on the road. The bandits killed whatever-his-name right off the bat and left me without a coin ta my name. If I hadn’t blindsided one of them I would be walking through the gates au natural.”

 

          “Thanks for the imagery. I hope you do know this will go on record and effect your ranking.”

 

           “Yeah. I know. Just give me a damn job.”

 

           The man seemed surprised at this. “You’re telling me that no villagers told you on the road here?”

 

            "I don't take the road. Sides, I doubt they woulda been in a talkitive mood if they saw me."

 

            “Alright. Point taken. Here’s the short of it: the warriors of the village are gone. They’ve gone over to Yushan to help the war-effort. Since then the wildlife has encroached onto the village’s farmland and are plaguing the fields.”

 

            “And how the hell am I supposed to do anything about that on my own?”

 

            “You’re in luck. Other strangers have heard the call and are here to help as well. They’ll be meeting Gorodir at the gates in an hour or so.”

 

            “Gorodir as in Gorodir Bouldermane?”

 

            “The same.”

 

            “Well, I’ll be damned.”

 

           Thargan had heard of the dwarf legend. How could he not, since in Tyger the common theory is that he’d been orphaned during the Second Ork-Manus war, and the soldiers who had killed his parents couldn’t bring themselves to off a babe so they dropped him at the chapel’s doorstep instead. But outside of the fact that the war happened, he didn’t really care about the man himself. It’s not like he held any special affinity for his own race, so Thargan didn’t really give a damn that the dwarf likely slaughtered a shit-ton of Orks during the war.

 

           “I guess I’ll see about getting geared before I go out – it’s not like I can do much with my bare hands.”

 

            Outside of terrorizing kids, that is.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

            Thargan slammed open the door and stomped in with a scowl on his face. A scowl that only deepened by the mass of humans messed into the place.

 

            He had barely taken a few steps out of the tavern when he felt the gazes on him. The whole fucking town was in a state of high alert because they were being overrun by vermin, but they just had to gawk at the ork. Gawk and, a few brave, stupid souls, glare, disgust scrunching up their noses. Thargan glared back. He glared and glared until he reached the door of the local weapon and armor shop and just marched in.

 

            He ignored all the humans and instead approached the counter. The man behind the counter, a muscular bronze man with gray mingled into his hair, seemed different than most ego ridden shitbags Thargan’s met, who just assumed because they had size and brawn they could go toe to toe with him. When Thargan approached the wall and tore off two axes he didn’t immediately reach for his sword and question whether or not he intended to buy them. Instead, he finished some sort of incantation he’d been in the middle of saying – some blessing that seemed vaguely familiar (a fact which Thargan shoved far away from his conscious mind) and just watched as Thargan slammed the handaxes down on the counter.

 

            “Price.”

 

            “6 gold, three a piece.”

 

             Like that Thargan felt his ire flame back to life. It was a swindle. It was a damn swindle! Like stealing the last few bits of gold he had on him. He opened his mouth, words buzzing to the surface of his mind, Thargan's contorting into a ricket of anger, then, slowly, died off. Thargan slammed the handaxes into his belt, grabbed a pair of breeches as an afterthought with a price tag of two gold, pulled out two gold from the pouch, chucked the rest of it over at the man, then stormed out of the store.

 

            Thargan made his way back to the tavern, but instead of going inside, instead he found a secluded area in the back, away from prying eyes within the building or on the streets of Silkrin proper. Then Thargan tore off the pants, the cloth – already stretched a bit tight – tore away with a single tug. He slipped on the breeches a moment later, and found that he had eyed them right – they were his size. There was no helping the tunic, however, the too small cloth clung to his chest and abs, highlighting their outline but at least covering up the crisscrossing spirals of scars that marred his body. Thargan was already an ork within a small Manus village (something he was uncomfortably familiar with) at least he did not give them the satisfaction of being able to gap at Caldrich’s handiwork.

 

            Once the tunic was secured, the belt strapped on with the tunic in place, and the two gold tucked away in a front pocket Thargan made his way to the gate where Gorodir waited.

 

            Sure enough, some people alredy waited by the gates. Two men, two women. Two noblewomen, their bodyguard and a aspiring merc from the look of it. Gorodir stood in front of them all, staring out into the grasslands. He seemed to nod to himself when he realized that they were all here. He turned around to face them and spoke with a voice that reverberated.

               

           “Come, children.”

 

            Thargan scowled, a look that marred his face and made the fangs in his jaw jut out. Children? Just how old is this –

 

            He stopped himself.

 

            Even in his head, Thargan didn't dare disrespect the legend before him.

 

            But the man’s next words made the scowl transform into a smirk.

 

            A contest. Perfect. He didn’t have to work with any of these kids. They would be going into the fields, killing the creatures, fulfilling the request of the villagers, without ever being forced to form a mockery of comradery. By the time the dwarf was finished, the smirk had settled down into a thin line as he handed over the axes for honing. Thargan didn't really care if he came out in first in this pissing contest, but he sure as hell would finish the damn job this time.

 

            He sure as hell would do that.

 

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OOC:

 

I mentioned this to Obsession (Naifu) but I got no reply so I'll just restate it here.

 

I'm not going to do a post. I have ideas for what Scott could do but all it'll serve to do is drag out the action, when, from what I gather, we're about the end the chapter.

 

Scott will try his grand escape attempt in the following chapter.

As time trickled on, minute by minute, a sinking dread overcame Meg – rising from the pit of her stomach and throughout her body. She couldn’t show her worry to Susie – that’s the last thing she would do as the girl was still so visibly shaken up – but she made her concern obvious by flipping on the intercom switch and speaking with worried tones into the microphone.

 

“Scott.” She said. “Joe. Do you read me? We’re swamped with Runners. We need back up.”

 

Silence.

 

“Hello? Do you read me?”

 

Behind her, Susie began to shake.

 

Meg left behind the microphone on the desk and crouched in front of the girl.

 

“Don’t worry. Everything’s fine, Swe-“

 

“Don’t call me that!”

 

The voice was so shrill and sharp that Meg had to rear her head back, wincing. Susie saw that and, in a mood swing so fast it almost unnerved Meg, lost all her ire in a moment. She clutched one arm to herself, frowned and cast her eyes downward. “Sorry.” She muttered. 

 

“It’s alright, Swe- It’s alright.”

 

Then something happened to tear her attention back to the screen.

 

The zombies were swarming the stairs.

 

Only one thing could make them do that – fresh meat.

 

“Scott!”

 

She rushed to the door and pulled the doorknob. Locked. The key. Right. The key.

 

But by the time she got it in all the zombies were in the stairwell. She was about to turn the knob when something clicked.

 

Where are the gunshots?

 

If it was Scott and Joe coming down on the stairs she should have heard the retorts of countless gunblasts, but all there was just silence.

 

“Scott?” She asked.

 

“Scott.” She muttered.

 

“Scott.” She whispered. Her hand fell off the door.

 

Then she heard the sound of twin thuds from the monitor.

 

She turned around. Two bodies had been flung out from the stairs.

 

How? I thought he – And she cut the thought off there and then.

 

A figure made its way down the stairs.

 

And she froze.

 

For the figure was not Scott, or even Joe, but a stranger.

 

A man wearing a stark white suit, which only made the blood splattered on him stand out all the more. He took a glance up at a camera and smiled.

 

Scott’s prone body was slung over his shoulder.

 

And her frozen body reawakened in a fury.

 

“Hey!” She screamed at him through the monitor. She spun around on her heel and reached for the door, not caring, at all, that zombies still lurked outside it.

 

She twisted the key and the doorknob.

 

Nothing.

 

“No.” She turned. “No” She turned it again. “No. No. No. No!”

 

Over her shoulder, she saw the man begin to walk away on the screen

.

“Stop!” She screamed, slamming a fist on the door. “Stop!” Then something rose inside, flooded her senses and she howled. “Stop or I’ll kill you! You hear me? I’ll fucking kill you!”

 

He was gone.

 

She twisted the doorknob again, and again, and again. But still the door wouldn’t budge. With sweat trickling down her skin, she scanned from one end of the room to the other. There. Her bat propt itself up in the corner of the room. She walked past the surprised Susie, picked up the bat, walked past her again and swung it down hard on the knob.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Getting us out of here, Sweetie. She may have said earlier, but now she just reared the bat back and slammed it down. The doorknob bent.

 

Good enough.

 

She threw the door open, charged by a surprised Joe only acknowledging him with a “Scott’s been kidnapped” before heading towards the front door.

 

Then stopped.

 

“No.” The word echoed in her head, a repeat from mere moments before.

 

She scanned the streets, eyed the buildings, the wreckage of cars and blood-smeared walls.

 

Empty.

 

Lifeless.

 

“Fucking no. No. Fuck you! Fuck you! Give him back!”

 

The scream died into a whimper in the air. She had no more sound. So silence reigned.

 

(OOC: I’m sorry this has taken me so long to get out there. But I finally have some time on my hands, so I managed to crank this out.

 

I think, with this, we’re finally ready for the time skip. Again, sorry for the delay.

 

I’m looking forward to the next chapter!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scott glanced over his shoulder at Meg’s retreating back for a split of a moment before Joe’s words snaps his attention back to the man.

 

“That won’t work. It’ll just break out and fly away when it realizes it can’t get to us. Corvus birds are some of the smartest birds in existence, crows included. Who knows how smart it is now.”

 

Scott shot him a wiry smile, “Is this the wisdom of a hunter?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“So, what’s your plan”

 

“We go in and search for good vantage points. A place with good line of sight but still out of the Crow’s reach.”

 

They were in front of the stairway door now. We don’t have any time to debate it. “Okay, we’ll go with that.”

 

They pushed open the door and revealed the flight of stairs upward. Scott pulled out his pistol from his belt and crept up the stairs as quickly as he dared. He could hear the faint noise of Joe’s footsteps behind him. They needed to hurry but be stealthy at the same time, an action that ramped up the teenager’s anxiety before he even faced danger. That – that would not do. When they reached the upper landing, Scoot took one deep breath and then peered up into the window.

 

Immediately to the right stood an elevator, with its doors closed tight. Directly in front was a railing, over which he could see the second floor cubicles below. Great. Scott thought as a tight smile rose to his face. We don’t need to search for a vantage point, we’re on a vantage point. But he couldn’t get too excited, the sounds of the chaos could be heard below. The skittering of the creatures (maybe he should call them Ticks, since they looked like they sucked blood), the snapping of the Crow’s beak and the sound of cubicles and shelves slamming to the floor all clamored within. Within all the commotion, Scott eased open the door – so that it made no more noise than the softest of whispers.

 

He crept through, glanced back at Joe and waved him in.

 

Of course it wasn't meant to be.

 

Joe had just crept through the door when they heard a shrill cry. Scott whirled around and brought his gun to bare only to see Joe stamp a boot down on the hardened carapace of a Tick. A moment later a black blur sped through the air (whether the Crow glided or jumped, Scott did not know), crashed through the railing and charged at Joe. The man dodged out of the way and the Crow slammed into the elevator doors, making them crack open with a bang and blast of sparks. The Crow backed up and shook its head as the doors fell away, revealing the empty shaft behind the doors. A great drop that descended down to the basement floors.

 

The moment the Crow straightened its head, its eyes widened in recognition of Scott. A beat later he shot a bullet through one of them.

 

The bird flopped to the floor, leaving scattered feathers to flutter up and then down in the air. Scott walked forward, gun pointed steadily in front of him, towards the downed bird. It didn’t move. He eased his grip, lowering the weapon some.

 

Is it really dead?

 

That’s when it struck.

 

Scott just had time to dodge by scrambling down the steps behind him, slamming the door closed behind him. He threw his back against the door then felt the vibrations course through him as the Crow rammed into the metal door, shaking it in its doorframe. Scott peered through the window on the door, shot through it, causing the window to shatter into shards, but the bullet just bounced off its beak. Scott ducked down. The Crow screamed – spittle flew through the gap. Where it landed in front of him it melted the metal stairs and cut rivets through the walls.

 

Scott cranked his head back up towards the window, cocked the gun and shot a bullet into its open jaws.

 

The Crow screamed its horrific scream that was more human than beast. And, in that moment as it shuffled backwards away from the door, Scott saw Joe leaping through the air and landing on the thing’s back. He was so stunned by the action that his gun loosened in his hand. The last time he saw the man Joe was standing right behind him on the stairs. How did he circle around? He must have made use of the fight as a distraction. Scott raised his gun up again as he saw Joe strike, swinging a knife down at one of the Crow’s wing joints. Blood leaked from its feathers and splattered down below where the knocked over cubicles were – the Ticks swarmed the blood in moments.

 

The Crow thrashed about, rearing back on its hind legs like a bull trying to buck a rider. And, just like in a rodeo, Joe went flying off his mount’s back – collapsing right at the edge of the drop, only a few feet more and he would have plummeted to his death. “Joe!” Scott shouted, as he unloaded on the bird’s thickened skin. In whirled over to him, a growlroar rumbling through its chest, before turning its gaze back to Joe who was just getting his feet under him. At that moment, the Crow proved it was smart enough to go after a weakened target instead of mindlessly going after Scott. It dived into the elevator shaft.

 

Joe recovered enough though to grab at a cable and then jump, leaping over the Crow’s beak moments before it could snap at his ankle. Scott could just see him land on a narrow metal bar, one that jutted out between this elevator shaft and the one above.

 

Scott was about to fire more shots into the Crow’s back when he heard the sound of countless skittering legs.

 

You’ve got to be kidding me.

 

Scott took cover behind the steel doorway, just in time to see countless Ticks start climbing over the wall and through the bent railing. Scott emptied his clip, one shot after another and another, popping the mutants in a shower of red gore. Sorry Joe. He thought as he killed another one. Got my hands tied here!

 

Meanwhile, the Crow was trying to snap at Joe on the bar. However the man was out of reach, so all it actions served was to shear off the casing on the cable. With each bite the elevator above quavered. That’s must be where Joe got his idea. With a single, precise aim Joe leveled his gun on the cable and fired.

 

The elevator screamed downward in a hail of sparks and screeching metal – then stopped.  

 

The Crow took another bite – eating into the metal bar a few feet away from the hunter. He couldn’t stay here.

 

So, with another leap, he jumped off the bar (the pressure was enough to snap it and make it tumble below) and grabbed the service ladder on the side of the elevator.

 

The Crow forced more of its body in. It opened its jaws and screamed at him. Acid spittle flew from its mouth and lands on the ladder going down, corroding it into a molten slag of metal. Joe scrambles to the top on the elevator before the Crow can fire another shot at him.

 

It would never get another chance.

 

Joe reached over to a lever on the top of the elevator – the manual override for the breaks. With a heave he wrenched it over, and then made one final leap to the one of the pipes that lined the interior of the elevator shaft. The elevator sped down and the Crow scrambled to get out of the way, but still the elevator slammed into it, cleaving it in half, before collapsing at the bottom in a cloud of dust and fire – the Crow’s blood spattered all along the shaft’s sides. 

At the same time the last of Scott’s gunshots died off.

A minute later the teenager poked his head in. Sweat coated his forehead, and damp spots had formed around his armpits and back. Claw marks can be seen on his legs and arms – when the Ticks got too close he had to physically beat them off. But still, when he saw Joe he smiled. “You alright up there?”

 

“Yeah, I think so. How about you?”

 

“Yeah. Just fine.”

 

A beat of awkward silence came on them, but before either could break it a flicker of static blared and then a familiar voice came over their headsets.

 

“We have a situation.”

 

That phrase alone was enough to bring back to life the tension that had eased out of him after the combat. Meg’s next words painted a grim picture for him, “When the Crow came in, the window-breaking must have alerted the zombies nearby. There’s a dozen or so outside, a couple in the lobby and I-don’t-know how many on the first floor. One gave me a jump-scare before I offed it.”

 

Despite her attempts to sound controlled in her report, Meg’s next words had a hint of desperation in them.

 

“What should we do?”

 

“It’s alright on our end. We killed the Crow and the Ticks on the second floor. So we’ll come down right now,” Then seeming to realize something Scott glanced over at the melted ladder.

 

“It’s fine.” Joe said.

 

Scott took a moment, then nodded. “We’ll come back for you.”

 

“I got it. Just go.”

 

Scott hurried to the door, threw it open, and then bounded down the steps two at a time.

 

Then stopped.

 

Just stopped.

 

He stopped moving, he stopped thinking, he stopped breathing. His very time had been stripped away from him.

 

Because, impossibly a man stood at the foot of the stairs.

 

A man that wore a startling white suit, that seemed to blend into the very walls around him, as insubstantial as a specter. A man that had his hair slicked back and gelled. A man with a trimmed goatee that was now stretched into a too-big grin. A man Scott had never seen before, and yet knew. Scott knew it from the way his body tensed, the way his mind shivered, stretched then rose in a chorus of screeches – all voices clamoring for the same thing.  He knew from the way all those voices were swarmed with a thickened field of red.

 

Not a man, but the man.

 

The Man opened his mouth to say something and Scott pulled the trigger. Just like that. No thoughts needed.

 

The Man didn’t even flinch. He tilted his head ever so slightly and the bullet whizzed by. The smile never left his face. If anything it grew.

 

“What a greeting. What a greeting. I was right, it was much better to come to you first.”

 

Scott readjusted his aim to the head, but the Man’s next words stopped him cold.

 

“’There’s a monster, you see, hiding down there,'”

 

The Man took a step and the metal groaned under his weight.

 

“'That horrible mutant with a red eyed stare,'”

 

His own eyes bore into Scott, a vivid intensity that set Scott’s mind ablaze with rage and froze it solid with fear – rooting him to his place.

 

“'It hovers in the shadows 'till the day is done,'”

 

The Man passed through a shadow on the stairway, merging in and out of the darkness.

 

“'It's toothy mouth smirks at the sight of the setting sun.'”

 

The Man’s own smile widened – a feat Scott did not know was possible.

 

“’Mum comforts me, as my face turns to white,'”

 

The Man was face to face with Scott now, and the teenager did not need to be told that his face had become ashen.

 

"’It’s okay sweetie. Everything’s alright.’" The Man whispered as he pulled Scott’s pistol from his twitching fingers with a gentle tug.

 

“Do you remember?”

 

The Man said and then made it true.

 

The floodgates in Scott’s mind burst open.

 

The Man that broke into their house. The Man who fought his father. The Man who carried them off to that room, that room, that goddamn room. The screams of his father. The blood that pooled and oozed on the operating table, the skin that peeled and peeled and peeled like a damn onion. And his mother, his mother that – and his father, his father with … with the scalpel he … he …

 

Scott scream shook the air as bile rose from the pit of his stomach. He bent over spewing the contents over the steps before collapsing on his knees and slumping down in it.

 

As the world faded he heard these single words:

 

“I guess that means yes.”

 

.................................................................................................................................……………………………………………………………………………….

 

Meg sighed in relief when she heard Scott’s voice come through the receiver. They were both alive, had cleared out the second floor and were coming down to help. She didn’t know how it was possible, especially so fast, but she guessed only a couple minutes were needed for combat. She flicked the microphone off with a single swipe before turning to Susie. That’s when her eyes widened. The little girl had gone as white as a sheet. She had fallen to her knees, covered her ears with her hands and shook her head back and forth. Frantically. So frantically that Meg knew that she would tear a muscle at this rate. She didn’t need to know anything more than that. She swooped down and threw her arms around the girl, stroking her pigtails and whispering. “It’s alright.” Meg said, “It’s alright.” Susie cried. It started slowly as soft trickles down her cheeks, but then built momentum as shoulder heaving sobs.

 

The sound only stopped when louder cut through the din – the sound of scratches against the door.

 

Meg got up. She could feel Susie’s gaze on her, her tear-stained gaze, as Meg stared at the door. It took a moment, just a fraction of a moment, for her to decide. She scooped up the keys on the desk and grabbed her bat.

 

“What are you doing.” Came Susie’s voice behind her, low and flat. Not a child’s voice at all. And not a question.

 

“I’m opening the door. Just – ”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“Just a little bit. Enough to see out of and hit the one on the other side.”

 

“Don’t. Don’t!” The girl said, and started shaking again.

 

She may have another attack. Meg thought. She didn’t need to think more than that. She laid down the bat and then went back to Susie.

“Sweetie.” She said. Meg didn’t know when she started giving the girl pet names. “Look at me, alright?” Susie did, slowly. “Scott and Joe are fine. That’s what the talk was about. They dealt with the Crow and the critters on the second floor and they’re coming down. See? They’re alive and we’re alive, and we’re gonna keep staying alive. Got it?”

 

“Got … it.”

 

“That’s my girl. So, I need to open the door and help them with the zombies as they come down. Just climb on the couch, wrap this jacket around you and close your eyes tight. It’ll all be over when you open them again. Ok?”

 

“Ok.” Her voice was steadier now. More assured. Meg broke out into a grin which Susie returned. Crisis averted. The teenager thought.

 

As Meg reclaimed the bat Susie crawled onto the couch.

 

Meg slipped the key into the lock. Susie slipped the jacket over her head.

 

Here it goes.

 

Meg opened the door a crack.

 

Fingers curled around the doorframe.

 

A head darted through the crack.

 

At that moment Meg swung her bat down.

 

The zombie tumbled backwards.

 

And there. Right there. In that moment, Meg saw the situation on the other side of the door.

 

She slammed the door closed again. Then locked it with trembling fingers.

 

“Is it over?”

 

“Change of plans. Help me move this couch.”

 

Susie got off the couch and, clad in the oversized jacket, stood at one end. Meg took the other and started pushing as Susie pulled. They slid the couch in front of the door just as the scratching started on the other side, but with more hands now.

 

“What now?” Susie said, as she wrapped her arms around herself.

 

"Now, Sweetie?" Meg said as she smiled at the girl. "Now we just need to hang tight."

So I've been gone for a long time.

 

The Christmas season is over for me, so I'm ready to start cranking out my writing. I think I'll post the fight Inu wants with the Crow just so things can start moving on our end.

Oh. So that wasn't just for Scott's new back story but a update for everyone. 

 

I get why it was all from Winston's pov now. 

 

Anyway, I'll get around to doing the edits for Scott's backstory and read all the posts I missed from the other plotlines since it seems you're finally merging them. 

How many years ago were Scott's parents murdered?

 

Sorry for the belated reply: three years. They were murdered when he was twelve then he spent two years and a half in Phoenix, then he moved to Sanctuary a few months ago. 

 

Am writing. Much work. Extreme tired. Will finish soonish. Proofread and edit tomorrow. Post then.

 

If you're tired then don't push yourself. You can always finish it off in the next couple days. 

 

Anyway, looking forward to it!

I figured it was a snap reaction, but the image of her getting a bite or mingling blood with it haunted the back of my mind. =D

@Trouble: You never disappoint me. Jak-Havir!

Yeah, she's realized the danger of CC. Since there's nothing she can do about it (she can't learn to shoot in a day) the most she can do is wrap some duct tape over her limbs. Scott will give her some shooting lessons (in the parking structure - underground) during the week time skip.

Assuming they're still in the Offices.

Kicking a zombie. That's so Meg~!
 
Didn't the snap vending machine have a glass front?

I was going for a snap reaction with that. She's been taking Taekwondo for several years now.

I was basing the vending machines off the ones on my campus - it's a sort of translucent plastic. You can see through it like glass but it's not so breakable.

After the boys left Meg moved forward in the long hallway – in the opposite direction the two left in; being sure to press her back against the wall. She could make out the torrent of light that flooded the front plaza. She had to be careful to stay out of sight of the large windows that acted as the front doors. Though the Crow was inside now, who knew what might happen to spot her from the outside. Over the course of a couple days Sanctuary had become a much larger and more dangerous place.

 

Danger was on her mind now. The danger that Scott was charging into.

 

She didn’t like it.

 

If he –

 

No. She thought. She could almost hear it in Joe’s tone; crisp, clear and sure. She would not think about death, about what could or might happen. She would do her food run and then return. She sided with Joe on this one – she didn’t want to leave Susie alone in that room.

 

But the question is – where to go? She had only been through the first floor though that panicked haze in the evening as they dragged Joe’s prone form through the hallways – the flickers of dying lights, before the backup generators came on, masking real monsters hidden in the shadows. And even when they made it into the safety of the security office, she only viewed the first floor through snapshots – parts and pieces through the security cameras.

 

She remembered the offices, rows of cubicles with hidden horrors lying in wait, the ones that Scott had combed through, hiding from cubicle to cubicle, to stay under the raised windows above. There should be a break room attached to them, for employees to stop and fill up on coffee after working early hours. So that’s where she went.

 

Sure enough, she found one. It had a door facing out into the hallway she was in and next to it was an oaken counter for the gathering and distributing of mail. Meg eased open the door and peeked inside. Light filled this room as well – the break room had a small square window on the back wall that gave off a single ray of light. A single metallic table, with white plastic chairs on each side, sat in the middle. There was a door to the right that would lead into the offices, a couple trashcans, and –

 

Jackpot.

 

On the left stood a sink, soap, paper towel dispenser, coffee maker and a fridge. Meg wasted no time hurrying over to the refrigerator and pulling the door open, where her smile widened even more. Three liter bottles, water, Coke and Diet Coke, sat on the door shelves. On the top were multiple small water bottles, all labeled with a green circle sticker, which she guessed indicated that they’re free for the employees (does that mean the giant sodas are exclusively for the bosses?) There was even a packed lunch, in a paper bag and then wrapped in a plastic bag, though she would have to open it later to see what’s inside.

 

The question is how to carry it all. The answer came to her as her eyes lighted on the trashcans. She looked into the two of them, found which one seemed emptier, and then upended it, watching empty bags of Cheezits, Skittles, and plastic Sprite bottles clutter on the floor. While she then stuffed the drinks into the now empty trash bags, she looked at the new mess she made. There has to be vending machines. She thought. A snack one and a soda one.

 

She found both the vending machines, side by side, in a small alcove on the opposite side of the mail room. She dropped the trashbag of goods with a flop and peered at both machines. She had talked with Scott about muffling her bat with her jacket, but now she was wondering if the bat would even be able to break through it. Even if she swung multiple times the noise would be horrific and there’s no guarantee that the bat, her sole fighting weapon, would get out of it unscathed.

 

It was as she was looking at it that she spotted the two locks on the side of the snack vending machine. Of course! Why break her way through the machines when she could just break the locks and open them normally? With a renewed vigor she reared the bat back, pivoted and swung –

 

Clang!

 

Even with the muffling the clash resounded within the refined space, vibrating her ears just like her arms shook. Meg had only swung her bat against softballs (…or soft … things) before, so the sensation of metal on metal was jarring. She didn’t want to have to do that again. She examined the lock once more. Her swing had bent it a bit out of shape. Not enough to break it, but enough to fiddle with it and get it unlocked.

 

After emptying the rows and rows of junk food, she then turned on the soda machine. Honestly, she wasn’t sure if she should focus on it at all. She already got a fairly good hall from the fridge in the break room and she didn’t want to make more noise than necessary.

 

But, then again, who knows how long this will go on?

So, she reared back her bat once more.

 

"Gaaah!”

 

“Kyaah!”

 

Meg jumped to the side, while screaming, just in time to see a half rotted zombie collide into the machine. It righted itself, long arms waving, and Meg swung. Her bat swooshed and slammed into the side of its head, indenting the side of its face, blending its left eye with part of its nose.

 

And still it rose again.

 

Before it could stand all the way up Meg struck the side of its face with a crescent kick. It tripped to the ground. She used the momentum to bring the bat down with her, slamming its face into the tiled floor – splattering up gore, loose teeth and hair. Then she swung down at it again. And again. And again.

When it stopped twitching she grabbed the bag and ran, unmindful of what could see her through the windows, till she reached the security door. While she ran she heard the buzzing of Susie’s words through the mike, but it was only after she furiously knocked on the door and the little girl opened it up for her that the words finally registered. “What’s wrong?”, “What happened?”, “Are you alright?” came the questions in succession.

 

Meg panted slowly, sliding down against the wall and letting the bag of food stuffs slump to the ground beside her. She dropped her bat, stripped it of her favorite jacket (now irredeemably coated in red) and tossed it into the corner of the room. Susie’s face slid into focus. She had grasped onto Meg’s hand. The teenager smiled at the girl and gave it a squeeze.

 

That seemed to calm the both of them down. “Are you okay, Meg?” The girl asked again.

 

“Yeah,” She said, and found that it was true. Despite the zombie getting the jump on her she was fine. “Just a bit of a scare. We missed – ”

 

Then she stopped.

 

Then the blood drained from her face.

 

 

“What’s going on?” Susie asked.

 

Meg stood up and hurried to the monitors. Just like Scott did minutes before (was it really all so fast?) she scanned the second floor where the Crow came in. Just like Scott she noticed the hole where it entered in from.

 

Unlike Scott now she saw a dozen or so zombies, clumped together in the field of shards on the ground – lured by the noise of breaking glass. Even now she spotted a couple inch through the doors into the front plaza. She turned her attention down to the mike on the desk, then flipped it on so that both Scott and Joe could hear her.

 

She forcibly calmed herself down after a sigh, then spoke. “We have a situation. When the Crow came in, the window-breaking must have alerted zombies nearby. There’s a dozen or so outside, a couple in the lobby and I-don’t-know how many on the first floor. One gave me a jump-scare before I offed it.”

 

She clutched at the desk.

 

“What should we do?”