[eighth bullet] Action
There was something wrong with this fog.
Liquid was taking a walk through Azalea, gathering his thoughts and keeping himself busy while he and Otacon were in town. He didn't like fog to begin with-- it wrecked hell on his visibility and got him cold and clammy. It was already afternoon and the sun hadn't burned it off yet, something that annoyed him to no end; it was like the world was locked in a hazy, wet twilight. And Liquid couldn't see two feet past his nose in it.
He heard something behind him; footsteps, the sound of combat boots on a cement floor, with the slight echo from a narrow, dusty corridor.
The soldier turned sharply towards the sound, reaching back for the knife in his pack. There weren't any combat knives available around here, but there were kitchen knives, and when in a pinch, a good butcher knife was just as good as a KA-BAR. They were generally always made of good steel and would have a good edge to them, and were made for heavy work.
"..."
There was nothing behind him but the rolling fog. Liquid turned and continued walking, his hand no longer on the knife but his body no less tense. Something was wrong; he could feel it. His gut instincts hadn't led him wrong yet.
A few moments later, the footsteps started again. Along with them were words, soft and low, whispered in Arabic.
"Are you ready, dog? It's just you and me, you son of a whore. You scream so beautifully. These marks look good on you, pet."
He felt the blood draining out of his face; he'd heard those words before. He knew that voice. He'd heard it in his ear for the past three years that he'd been in the desert. The soldier didn't stop walking, though; it wasn't possible. He couldn't be hearing what he thought he was hearing-- there was no way. He was here, he wasn't there. It was all in his head, just all in his head.
Liquid's hand went back to the knife. The wooden handle was reassuringly solid in his palm.
His feet didn't feel like they were falling on grass and ground anymore. It felt like concrete, gritty with fine sand, the footsteps sounding hollow in a narrow corridor. It didn't feel like he was wearing boots; the floor was cold and hard. His feet stuck slightly to the floor with every step, feeling gummy as though the soles were covered with congealing blood.
It's not real, it's not real, it's not real...
Liquid broke out into a cold sweat.
Was it just him, or did the fog look too solid? Did it look like walls, like concrete walls, walls that were set with heavy steel doors? He heard more footsteps, the familiar sound of guards making their patrols; Arabic voices and--
Screams.
Liquid's hands went up to either side of his head, trying to block the noises and the sounds out physically, as though his hands could keep it all out from his brain. He could feel his hair starting to stick to the sweat on his forehead; despite the chill and the clammy air, he was sweating like a man who'd just run a marathon. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut.
it's not real it's not real it's not real it'snotreal
He opened his eyes again and everything was pitch black.
His blood went cold; it felt like his heart was pumping ice water all through his body. Something in his chest was squeezing like a vice, and it made him want to scream and scream and thrash at whatever boundaries were in the darkness. It made him want to run, want to escape, because oh god he was back there. They had him again, he was back in the dark and the cold and the silence and it was so, so quiet, so quiet that he could hear the blood rushing in his ears like the tide.
"No--" his voice was a tight gasp that he didn't recognize. "No, no, no no no no nonononono--!"
The concrete floor cut at his knees when he fell to them, his fingers clutching the sides of his head until they drew blood. It couldn't be, this couldn't be happening, he swore that he would rather have death than capture--
Liquid flung himself where the walls should be, feeling his shoulder strike against thick, cold concrete on the left, on the right, behind him, making a box around him some six feet by six feet. A tiny soundproof, light-proof box that smelled like sweat and fear and blood and much less savory things than that, a box that he'd spent so much of the past three years in that he knew every crack and crevice inside it. A box that he'd screamed himself raw in before just so that there would be some kind of sound in his ears, something other than that thick, dark, cottony silence.
He threw himself forward with a savage yell-- sounding more like wounded animal than man-- and felt his weight hit a metal door, which gave way beneath him. It swung open, unlocked despite all hope, and he stumbled out into the hallway, catching himself on the far wall.
Tap tap tap taptaptaptaptaptap
"Do you know what this is, pet? It's lye. Let's see what it does to all your pretty marks--"
Around the corner came three men, all of them wearing Iraqi uniforms. He didn't hear what they said to each other, but when they started running towards him, Liquid reached back and grabbed the knife from his pack. He swung it forward in one smooth motion, snarling like a beast, and cut a bright red line across the first one's chest.
He would be free, no matter the cost.
((OOC: Liquid has just had a fun freakout in the middle of Azalea. He'll flee the scene after dealing some nonlethal cuts to the unfortunate police who were called to deal with the crazy big guy. Approach if you like, but this is a huge tl;dr post and there's no obligation. Also, he's batshit and liable to attack anyone who comes near.))
Liquid was taking a walk through Azalea, gathering his thoughts and keeping himself busy while he and Otacon were in town. He didn't like fog to begin with-- it wrecked hell on his visibility and got him cold and clammy. It was already afternoon and the sun hadn't burned it off yet, something that annoyed him to no end; it was like the world was locked in a hazy, wet twilight. And Liquid couldn't see two feet past his nose in it.
He heard something behind him; footsteps, the sound of combat boots on a cement floor, with the slight echo from a narrow, dusty corridor.
The soldier turned sharply towards the sound, reaching back for the knife in his pack. There weren't any combat knives available around here, but there were kitchen knives, and when in a pinch, a good butcher knife was just as good as a KA-BAR. They were generally always made of good steel and would have a good edge to them, and were made for heavy work.
"..."
There was nothing behind him but the rolling fog. Liquid turned and continued walking, his hand no longer on the knife but his body no less tense. Something was wrong; he could feel it. His gut instincts hadn't led him wrong yet.
A few moments later, the footsteps started again. Along with them were words, soft and low, whispered in Arabic.
"Are you ready, dog? It's just you and me, you son of a whore. You scream so beautifully. These marks look good on you, pet."
He felt the blood draining out of his face; he'd heard those words before. He knew that voice. He'd heard it in his ear for the past three years that he'd been in the desert. The soldier didn't stop walking, though; it wasn't possible. He couldn't be hearing what he thought he was hearing-- there was no way. He was here, he wasn't there. It was all in his head, just all in his head.
Liquid's hand went back to the knife. The wooden handle was reassuringly solid in his palm.
His feet didn't feel like they were falling on grass and ground anymore. It felt like concrete, gritty with fine sand, the footsteps sounding hollow in a narrow corridor. It didn't feel like he was wearing boots; the floor was cold and hard. His feet stuck slightly to the floor with every step, feeling gummy as though the soles were covered with congealing blood.
It's not real, it's not real, it's not real...
Liquid broke out into a cold sweat.
Was it just him, or did the fog look too solid? Did it look like walls, like concrete walls, walls that were set with heavy steel doors? He heard more footsteps, the familiar sound of guards making their patrols; Arabic voices and--
Screams.
Liquid's hands went up to either side of his head, trying to block the noises and the sounds out physically, as though his hands could keep it all out from his brain. He could feel his hair starting to stick to the sweat on his forehead; despite the chill and the clammy air, he was sweating like a man who'd just run a marathon. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut.
it's not real it's not real it's not real it'snotreal
He opened his eyes again and everything was pitch black.
His blood went cold; it felt like his heart was pumping ice water all through his body. Something in his chest was squeezing like a vice, and it made him want to scream and scream and thrash at whatever boundaries were in the darkness. It made him want to run, want to escape, because oh god he was back there. They had him again, he was back in the dark and the cold and the silence and it was so, so quiet, so quiet that he could hear the blood rushing in his ears like the tide.
"No--" his voice was a tight gasp that he didn't recognize. "No, no, no no no no nonononono--!"
The concrete floor cut at his knees when he fell to them, his fingers clutching the sides of his head until they drew blood. It couldn't be, this couldn't be happening, he swore that he would rather have death than capture--
Liquid flung himself where the walls should be, feeling his shoulder strike against thick, cold concrete on the left, on the right, behind him, making a box around him some six feet by six feet. A tiny soundproof, light-proof box that smelled like sweat and fear and blood and much less savory things than that, a box that he'd spent so much of the past three years in that he knew every crack and crevice inside it. A box that he'd screamed himself raw in before just so that there would be some kind of sound in his ears, something other than that thick, dark, cottony silence.
He threw himself forward with a savage yell-- sounding more like wounded animal than man-- and felt his weight hit a metal door, which gave way beneath him. It swung open, unlocked despite all hope, and he stumbled out into the hallway, catching himself on the far wall.
Tap tap tap taptaptaptaptaptap
"Do you know what this is, pet? It's lye. Let's see what it does to all your pretty marks--"
Around the corner came three men, all of them wearing Iraqi uniforms. He didn't hear what they said to each other, but when they started running towards him, Liquid reached back and grabbed the knife from his pack. He swung it forward in one smooth motion, snarling like a beast, and cut a bright red line across the first one's chest.
He would be free, no matter the cost.
((OOC: Liquid has just had a fun freakout in the middle of Azalea. He'll flee the scene after dealing some nonlethal cuts to the unfortunate police who were called to deal with the crazy big guy. Approach if you like, but this is a huge tl;dr post and there's no obligation. Also, he's batshit and liable to attack anyone who comes near.))