| Brigits-flame, week 2: Fuel: Moonlight in the blood |
[Oct. 15th, 2008|08:13 am] |
Title: Moonlight in the blood
Author: ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) fiercebydesign writing as _gigo_
Notes: For the second week in ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) brigits_flame
Faster.. faster...
Engines revved as our RPM's increased. But was I fast enough?
Bullets ricocheted off my passenger side window, and I shifted into fourth gear, my foot solid lead on the pedal. More bullets, and my rear view mirror was almost completely blocked by the behemoth SUV behind me.
Oh God, I'm too late!
I could feel more adrenaline surging into my system as I switched a lever on my dashboard. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but they were in range.
My eyes calculated the feet in distance between me and my target. Close enough. Four missiles had popped up from what looked like a spoiler. Pressing a knob on my gearshift, I felt the kick as they launched off, accelerating me that much further, and demolishing the SUV in a fireball of metal and rubber. I switched my air conditioner vents to the off position, circulating the air already inside the cab. I wasn't sure if they'd had anything that could be released as an airborn toxin, but, better safe thans sorry.
And boy was I sorry now. That meant more would come looking for me. Those few were only scouts, and there are more coming, more determined than ever to find me.
The one that escaped. The one that got away.
They taught me, they trained me into what I am today. One hundred percent human, four hundred percent as deadly. And I had a penchant for hardcore weaponry. I was good at hiding, good at running, but a special toy, a pet to the government. So good at being found. Which government, I can't say, honestly because I don't know. Maybe several governments collaborated against the United States, or maybe the US was involved. I don't think I'm meant to know, and I can't find out without being captured, which is the last thing on my mind. Fear drove me away from my 'home', fueled my desire to live.
My story is short: I was given a mission, trained, and somehow, I failed. I tracked my target, I destroyed it and left no traces, just like commanded. And now they want me dead. I've been chased ever since, and it's only been two months since my mission debriefing. I didn't understand why they tried to shoot me and failed, why I was stunned, tasered, stabbed, but I did understand how I got away. That's what they trained me to do: leave nothing, and no one, behind.
I drove in silence, hearing the purr of my engine as the sun set in the distance. The Witching Hour.
I'd have to hunt soon before I couldn't see, and I couldn't afford to wait until dusk. That last adrenaline dump was starting to wear off and I was getting weary. Driving to a more wooded part of the countryside, I found a grove of trees and parked. Locking everything down, I stepped out and stretched. Hearing rustling behind me, I saw the trees uproot and move themselves closer together to hide the unnatural obstruction. Backing away, I made note of the trees and hoped I'd be able to find them again. Knowing where my car was didn't pose a problem: we were attuned to one another. The issue was getting the trees to move and let me have my car back.
I can run fast, but sometimes taking a car is faster, especially when one was being chased. Taking view of my surroundings, I hoped not to have to use my legs much. They were starting to cramp, which meant I'd need to find water soon, and food. But, the occasional battle in between the two ought to do me some good. In the short months between my last mission and now, I hadn't used my skills much, except to hide. Looking around, I found trees, more trees, and the occasional berry bush. I snacked here and there, the bushes lacking the thorns that made them poisonous. In this territory, I decided, waiting until cover of darkness was the best possible way to hunt, and get the biggest catch. Which meant only an hour or so to go. Witching Hour was upon me, that hazy stillness between the last death throws of daylight, and the onset of dusk.
Tapping on a tree, I realized it sounded hollow, and then it tapped back.
I tapped it again. And more tapping resounded from within. I'd seen no driftwood or fallen branches.
And then an idea struck. “Have you...” I started, and realized how crazy I sounded, but continued, “Got any spare branches you could do without..?”
Not expecting a response I shook my head. My reflexes kicked in as something fell toward me, and I ducked out of the way.
Laying there, as it hadn't a moment ago, was a tree branch. It had many twigs and several sets of dead leaves, so I guessed it was nearing the end of its cycle. Something the tree could do without. Dead weight.
Breaking apart the twigs and leaves, I broke the larger part of the fallen branch into more manageable pieces. I dusted off a clearing, away from most of the newer, green things, and grabbed some paper from my pocket. Lighting it, I dropped it onto the pile.
There it was, a sort of macabre dance, between the fire, the paper and the twigs and leaves, almost like a dance of war, a dance to the death.
Soon, night fell, and my eyes switched to the view of night. I could see things almost as clearly as in daylight. I was wearing black which would make me harder to see. I strayed away from my camp, away from the light of the fire, which was dimming. I was walking slowly, hoping nothing within here would notice my presence until it was too late. Taking step after cautious step, I walked, I waited, and I was rewarded.
Movement, in the brushes ahead and to the left. Taking another step further and another, pausing in mid-step, something lunged, but not where I couldn't see it. I was after it, and it was gone, muscles rolling and coiling under its fur. I jumped, and tackled us both, plunging my knife in its back, severing the spinal cord, and pulled it upward, cutting across its neck, the fatal blow.
Turning it over, I saw its main fangs hadn't even come in yet. Not even a year old... just a pup. Which broke all the government's theories about werewolves... they couldn't create more. But this disproves that, all the current wolves on record were close to a century old, some much older.
Which meant that my creators had lied either way. They couldn't be unaware, we were trained they were omnipotent. And there were more wolves... some uncharted. So maybe there were more.. more wolves, more lies. More of others like me. Maybe other things that need hunting. I took the energy of my kill, and walked back to the clearing.
We don't 'eat' the things we hunt, we simply take their energy through an almost...psychic means. That's the only way I can describe it. I knew better than to ask questions, so I don't know for sure how it happens, but I'm grateful that it does. I'd die within 48 hours without some form of food.
My fire had been extinguished, thanks to dousing by the trees. Maybe the fire had spread too far...
In any case, it was taken care of. The moon was full, high in the night. I tapped on the tree again and asked for my car. It tapped back and a grove of trees seperated, my wheels unscathed save for a few leaves on the hood. Stepping in, I started the engine, my mission officially changed.
Running and hiding were no longer options. This was officially war.
The only mission now was to find answers. I knew I'd be hunted. I knew things the government didn't want me to know, and I was officially a threat to the regime. So they'd come after me. And maybe eventually find me. I had to go home, had to go back. They'd want me dead now, but I can honestly say that I wanted the same for them. I'll be waiting for them to find me.
I'd be there. Right on their doorstep. I'd be waiting. I'd always be waiting. |
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| brigits_flame entry: Topic: 'There it goes...' |
[Oct. 8th, 2008|12:04 am] |
Title: Kevlar
Author: fiercebydesign writing as _gigo_
Author's notes: This is based on recent events. Please tread carefully when reading and don't be too quick to assume until you've finished the piece. This is a very ecclectic work and doesn't flow as smoothly as my normal works. This did actually happen to me, and it still hasn't been resolved. Please look at fiercebydesign for details.
( Kevlar ) |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 15th, 2007|11:27 am] |
I signed up to deviantArt as popularlycontrary.
...Now it's time to post things... I think. |
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| some inclusion of my OC, Michael |
[Jul. 15th, 2007|11:25 am] |
Some inclusion of my OC: Michael.
Gabriel had made a mess of things. He usually did, even before his Falling from Grace.
But now, he'd just become an annoyance.
Michael had rarely become annoyed with Gabriel, no, for at times he considered Gabriel his equal, his better, for Gabriel's closeness to God, something that Michael had lost long ago, and didn't wish to keep.
Gabriel, had long since lost the title of Michael's better.
As Gabriel stood before him, Michael sensed a change, underneath the madness, though not its cause. Both their wings flared up in charge, though both stood reverently still.
And then, Michael knew.
He knew the cause of Gabriel's descent, his madness, besides years of torture at watching humanity fall.
And now, he watched as that cause took hold of Gabriel, posessed him, and held him still before Michael, posing a war between the two.
But Michael stood firm, having waited for years for this moment. Decades. Centuries.
"You dare to challenge me?" Michael said, his voice rising in pitch, in temperance.
And Gabriel laughed, Satan's ego behind it, mutilating it, twisting it 'till it became his own.
"I 'dare' to challenge anybody, you arrogant snot. Do you think I'm not willing to take a challenge? Especially from you, please." He twisted it still further, causing it to distort with malice. "You're nothing."
Michael's wings spread wide, and he flung an invisible ball of energy toward the Dark Lord, flames tinging its sides, flinging him backwards until Satan's body was against the wall, knocking him off balance.
"I beg to differ."
You see, Satan only has power in numbers. Strength in masses.
And Michael has been working to change all that. Diverting Satan's followers to a different path: Christianity, Paganism, Taoism, even Atheism, until Satan's numbers were less than half of what they were.
And apparently, it worked quite well, all appearances judging.
Lucifer's shock was true, and Michael's was not.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did that hurt?"
His wings spread again, this time in anger.
"Well, tough shit asswipe, this time it's payback!"
He flung balls of energy, ball after ball, leaving flaming circles and craters about the room, about Satan's form, and on the Dark One himself.
Lucifer, though hiding it very well, was actually concerned.
For his metaphysical safety, for the safety of his Kingdom, his form, his very existence and being.
For He had taken the same path. One of vengeance, revenge, painful retaliation, except the pain wasn't his own. It was his greed that drove him.
Michael's pain was different, he sensed. The Archangel's pain was different, it drove him, it fueled him, and drove him to lengths that Satan couldn't even imagine doing himself.
Love. Satan understood it, though vaguely.
Apparently, though, Michael had a clearer understanding of the subject.
Disclaimer: I do not own Constantine, or Satan/Lucifer. However, Michael is my baby in this particular fandom, so leave him alone, please. |
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| Table for fanfic100 |
[Apr. 8th, 2006|05:35 pm] |
( Claim: Constantine (the book) )
Hopefully, this'll increase the flow of writing juices. And, get this monstrosity of a fic idea out of my poor brain.
It's been tormenting me for months, and this whole thing gives me a marvelous idea. |
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