shifted_prompts - in repair
Verse: realityshifted
Comm: shifted_prompts
Word Count: 696
Everything dies.
That, unerringly, is the way of things.
The Brigadier was resigned to death. He had taken far too much damage in the fight - the gaping hole in his chest was the fatal one. The size of a woman's hand, pushed in through the front, snapping ribs like they were twigs and tearing through organs as if they were nothing. He only barely felt the fangs sink into his throat and pierce the arteries. If he had any strength left in him, he would have shot her one last time, straight through her skull, but it was too late for that.
The Brigadier died a bloody mess. He was always prepared to die; he didn't expect it so much as he accepted it as a possibility with every risk he chose to take. He had known the risks when he had shot the first round from his gun and the vampire barreled down on him in a violent fury. Perhaps if he were another man he would have left her to her violence, to her slaughter.
He had been prepared for death. When he awoke what seemed like moments after, naked, cold, and on a slab of metal, he didn't know how to react. The Twins, two impish children (or perhaps childlike imps) handed him tea and spoke amidst each other while the Brigadier's mind tried to reconcile events. He had died. He had been killed in a violent and bloody manner. Yet here he was. It barely registered when the Twins shoved clothes at him then directed him to the door. It was just a fog.
That his death had been undone was something he couldn't quite grasp. He understood the words - the fact that he was breathing, his heart was beating - but the concept was beyond him. When you prepare yourself for death, you don't quite prepare to live again after it. There were no scars on him, no blood, no pains to be found in any of the places he had been wounded. It was as if nothing had happened.
So the Brigadier did what he did best. He carried on, despite the fact he was strained by confusion and fear. He waved things off to those he spoke to - he hadn't died. He had simply been busy since the fight. Discretion is the better part of valour. He left when things became wildly out of his control. Only a few people picked up any discrepancies in his behaviour, slight twinges and twitches, reactions that he might not have done prior. Those few found out.
When Donna returned from her death (which hadn't surprised him, she was a fighter by her own right, one with morals and her own sense of duty) they had drank themselves into a stupor. He wasn't a man who typically drank to excess, but he allowed himself to sink to that level this one time. He couldn't cope, despite how well people believed him to be. No one could - at least, no one human.
He slunk to the TARDIS after that, trying to avoid the Doctor at all costs. He couldn't handle the questioning that would come with being found. Inquiries as to why he was pissed, to what had happened to the blood, or even just simple nonsense of Doctor variety. The Brigadier needed time alone.
As soon as he entered his room, he locked it, then sank down onto his bed. The Brigadier stared into his hands for a long while, lost in a sort of introspection he rarely allowed himself. He had been prepared to die, even though he knew he had obligations elsewhere. There was UNIT back in London - his men who would need him back eventually. Gallivanting around time and space with the Doctor was it's own unique experience; the Astral Plane and it's inhabitants another, yet he couldn't afford this.
Finally, the Brigadier laid back in his bed and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he would try again to put everything back in order. Tomorrow, he would try to resume his life as if nothing had happened at all. Tonight, he only hoped that nothing more of his world would come crashing down around his ears.
Comm: shifted_prompts
Word Count: 696
Everything dies.
That, unerringly, is the way of things.
The Brigadier was resigned to death. He had taken far too much damage in the fight - the gaping hole in his chest was the fatal one. The size of a woman's hand, pushed in through the front, snapping ribs like they were twigs and tearing through organs as if they were nothing. He only barely felt the fangs sink into his throat and pierce the arteries. If he had any strength left in him, he would have shot her one last time, straight through her skull, but it was too late for that.
The Brigadier died a bloody mess. He was always prepared to die; he didn't expect it so much as he accepted it as a possibility with every risk he chose to take. He had known the risks when he had shot the first round from his gun and the vampire barreled down on him in a violent fury. Perhaps if he were another man he would have left her to her violence, to her slaughter.
He had been prepared for death. When he awoke what seemed like moments after, naked, cold, and on a slab of metal, he didn't know how to react. The Twins, two impish children (or perhaps childlike imps) handed him tea and spoke amidst each other while the Brigadier's mind tried to reconcile events. He had died. He had been killed in a violent and bloody manner. Yet here he was. It barely registered when the Twins shoved clothes at him then directed him to the door. It was just a fog.
That his death had been undone was something he couldn't quite grasp. He understood the words - the fact that he was breathing, his heart was beating - but the concept was beyond him. When you prepare yourself for death, you don't quite prepare to live again after it. There were no scars on him, no blood, no pains to be found in any of the places he had been wounded. It was as if nothing had happened.
So the Brigadier did what he did best. He carried on, despite the fact he was strained by confusion and fear. He waved things off to those he spoke to - he hadn't died. He had simply been busy since the fight. Discretion is the better part of valour. He left when things became wildly out of his control. Only a few people picked up any discrepancies in his behaviour, slight twinges and twitches, reactions that he might not have done prior. Those few found out.
When Donna returned from her death (which hadn't surprised him, she was a fighter by her own right, one with morals and her own sense of duty) they had drank themselves into a stupor. He wasn't a man who typically drank to excess, but he allowed himself to sink to that level this one time. He couldn't cope, despite how well people believed him to be. No one could - at least, no one human.
He slunk to the TARDIS after that, trying to avoid the Doctor at all costs. He couldn't handle the questioning that would come with being found. Inquiries as to why he was pissed, to what had happened to the blood, or even just simple nonsense of Doctor variety. The Brigadier needed time alone.
As soon as he entered his room, he locked it, then sank down onto his bed. The Brigadier stared into his hands for a long while, lost in a sort of introspection he rarely allowed himself. He had been prepared to die, even though he knew he had obligations elsewhere. There was UNIT back in London - his men who would need him back eventually. Gallivanting around time and space with the Doctor was it's own unique experience; the Astral Plane and it's inhabitants another, yet he couldn't afford this.
Finally, the Brigadier laid back in his bed and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he would try again to put everything back in order. Tomorrow, he would try to resume his life as if nothing had happened at all. Tonight, he only hoped that nothing more of his world would come crashing down around his ears.