Heather Mason (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
foolishwren) wrote2013-10-29 07:55 pm
foolishwren) wrote2013-10-29 07:55 pm
Entry tags:
110. [Action for NIGHTMARE EVENT, backdated]
The low moan of the wind was practically alive in these drafty stone corridors, and the sound of her boots on the floor seemed almost deafening.
And it was cold.
Those were a few of the many differences between this and the Otherworld, which had been cramped and often grotesquely warm, with her footfalls echoing only dully on the dusty (or sometimes meaty) floors.
It wasn't really a question of which she liked better, because frankly, she didn't like EITHER.
But the similarities were, weirdly, more comforting than the differences.
She stopped as a non-windy sound drifted towards her from down the hallway, her steadily-bouncing flashlight beam stilling.
That was something that was similar. The light by her collar (not in her pocket this time-- but close enough) and the knife in her hand and the familiar buzz of adrenaline to sharpen her senses and mind.
And the creatures, whose eyes were now visible, gleaming in the gloom ahead.
They were perhaps, the most familiar of all, even though it had been years since she'd seen a real one and not one of the magical creatures inhabiting her new home. Magical creatures that she, in fact, was LOOKING for now.
But these weren't Pokemon.
And they could be killed.
Her grip tightened on the knife and she started forward once again.
[OOC: This is a catch-all log for all the nighttime adventures Heather had in the Nightmare Castle, whether it's fighting monsters or finding her Pokemon. Open to all, feel free to start any scenario you want. Doesn't have to be connected to the prose above!]
And it was cold.
Those were a few of the many differences between this and the Otherworld, which had been cramped and often grotesquely warm, with her footfalls echoing only dully on the dusty (or sometimes meaty) floors.
It wasn't really a question of which she liked better, because frankly, she didn't like EITHER.
But the similarities were, weirdly, more comforting than the differences.
She stopped as a non-windy sound drifted towards her from down the hallway, her steadily-bouncing flashlight beam stilling.
That was something that was similar. The light by her collar (not in her pocket this time-- but close enough) and the knife in her hand and the familiar buzz of adrenaline to sharpen her senses and mind.
And the creatures, whose eyes were now visible, gleaming in the gloom ahead.
They were perhaps, the most familiar of all, even though it had been years since she'd seen a real one and not one of the magical creatures inhabiting her new home. Magical creatures that she, in fact, was LOOKING for now.
But these weren't Pokemon.
And they could be killed.
Her grip tightened on the knife and she started forward once again.
[OOC: This is a catch-all log for all the nighttime adventures Heather had in the Nightmare Castle, whether it's fighting monsters or finding her Pokemon. Open to all, feel free to start any scenario you want. Doesn't have to be connected to the prose above!]
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[He waves his hand, meaning, Creepier than someplace with real, live, hungry fuckin' monsters shuffling around?]
[Open door now, weird kid's life story later.]
[He grabs the knob.]
Now!
[And yanks with everything he's got.]
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[Later indeed.]
[Instead, with a grunt, she leans on the poker with all her might.]
[There's a crackling creak, and then the door comes open with a splintering of wood around the edges.]
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[Blake barks joyful satisfaction. He hops back from the broken door and grins at Heather.]
We showed that son of a bitch who's boss.
Now, that's gotta be the way out. They wouldn't've locked it so tight if it did lead somewhere good.
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[SHIT GETS RUSTY. ALL DOORS ARE LOCKED.]
... But let's hope.
[Leaning cautiously into the doorway, she peeks inside.]
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Yeah, I've been in some lunatic hoarders' places.
[He peers down the dark hall. A finger of cold breeze from nowhere brushes against his neck. His hand grips the curtain rod hard. He makes his voice steady, dammit.]
There was this one with a closet, the thing had at least six padlocks. Not little wussy bike locks either, big ugly metal things that could hold down a Mac truck. Like Al Capone's vault. The guys sawed it open, while this lady's screeching and howling, and you know what it was? Dog food. Pounds and pounds of it, twenty years old.
[He stalks down the hall, eyes sweeping back and forth, ignoring the shadows that don't stay in the right place.]
Didn't even have a dog.
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Dog food?
Jeez.
Some people are nuts.
[Her own eyes are flicking about. The worst thing about this place is that it seems DESIGNED to frighten. It's impossible to tell if an errant movement is from a real threat or nothing at all.]
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That's not even close to the craziest I ever ran into, either.
[Blake ducks slightly to get beneath a crucifix hanging from the ceiling.]
Work as a cop long enough, you see everything.
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[The temptation to be snarky about it is strong, but she decides to can it for now.]
Well, your cop intuition tell us anything about THIS place?
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[He looks around. Blind corners, shadows, a weird quality to the sound so it's hard to tell if that muffled noise is footsteps or your imagination.]
It tells me to get the hell out of here.
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[... It was a thinly-veiled insult, but an affectionate one.]
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--Sh. You hear that?
[She's lowered her voice and stopped moving.]
[It's a moaning, snuffling sound up ahead that she's referring to... and the dull scrape of something moving about on the old stone floors.]
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[There it is. Low, but definitely not his imagination.]
[His voice drops to a hiss as he brings his makeshift weapon to the ready.] The fuck is that?
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[Her own voice is little more than an exhalation, and she turns her flashlight off with a click.]
Get behind me, but stay close.
[It's blunter than she'd rather be (since it might not go over well), but she doesn't exactly have the luxury of breaking her greater experience to him gently.]
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[He's not cowering behind a teenage girl, goddamn it!]
[He shoves past her, brandishing the pole]
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BLAKE!
[She hisses it viciously, actually daring to make a grab for his arm as he bulls past-- but doesn't actually catch him.]
Stop!
[It's hard to get back ahead of somebody in such a narrow hallway, though-- which is why he comes to face, head-on, a Thing.]
[The Thing looks more or less like this.]
[But bigger. Much, much bigger. In fact, it's the size of a small bear.]
[And guess what, Blake? It's looking right at YOU!]
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[Blake's eyes go wide and round. Terror smacks into him like an iron pipe.]
[The thing in front of him should not exist. It has no fucking right to be there, huge and wheezing, dripping rain.]
[He doesn't think. He just swings the curtain rod with everything he's got, right at where the thing's head should be.]
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[The creature twitches at the strike, but if anything, just seems more interested.]
[It turns its snout upwards at Black, revealing a row of perfect white human teeth at the end of it in a horrible mockery of a smile.]
[And then it lurches forward with its clublike hands.]
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[When he hits the thing, the whap reverberates all up his arms.]
[The thing barely notices.]
[It smiles at him, and says in a friendly human voice, It's been a while, Carter.]
[And, faster than anything should be able to move, it's coming for him.]
[Blake yells and strikes out wildly with his weapon, over and over]
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[It's hard to strike in such a confined space-- even without the possibility of hitting Blake. So Heather doesn't swing. Instead, as she jumps alongside the thrashing man, she thrusts the poker forward in a vicious stabbing motion, aiming for the creature's face.]
[Unfortunately, doing so earns her a few whacks from the curtain pole and Blake's wild flailing, but...]
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[As her poker goes high, he jabs his low, trying to run the sharp end of the rod through the thing's gut with strength born from desperation]
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[Blake barks it out desperately as he falls back with the bulky, wheezing thing on top of him, crushing him.
Caaaarteeeer
you'll help me again won't you
Blake yells and punches it in the face as hard as he can. It squelches under his fist and hardly moves. It breathes damp cold over him.
for old time's sake
In desperation, Blake grabs the curtain rod in both hands and tries to jam it sideways as a bar across the thing's throat. If it even has a throat. He strains to push it upwards enough that Heather can get free]
Heather, get the fuck out of here!
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[By herself... this would have been very difficult.]
[But Blake's levering is just the boost needed.]
[With the practiced speed of someone who's used to getting out of tight spots, Heather wriggles out and scrambles upright. HOWEVER, instead of heeding Blake's advice, she goes back to attacking the thing-- driving the poker like a railroad spike into the place where the beast's skull meets the back of its neck.]
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His arms weaken, and it sinks closer, cold rain dripping on him. All he can think of is how this isn't any of the dozen ways he expected to die.
The thing goes stiff.
There's something sticking out of its neck.
It makes a wet gasp that turns into a shriek and bursts into cold mist.
Blake goes flat on the floor, panting for breath and letting his weapon fall to the side. He can't grasp how he's alive. He's left shivering on the stone and staring up at the darkness. His voice comes out barely above a whisper.]
Jesus. Jesus Christ.
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