077/100: What?
Fandom: SMT: DDS
Characters: Gale, a Brute
Prompt: 077. What?
Word Count: 449
Rating: R-ish? More violence, o no.
Summary: Gale has a religious experience of sorts.
Author's Note: Investigating another aspect of change, post-Atma.
The black hood flutters in and out, level with the prisoner's mouth. Hyperventilation. And the noises, the sobbing. It's hard for him to breathe. Gale's never seen anything like it. Never seen a prisoner respond this way. This fear of death presents an interesting opportunity, though. The strategist stands in front of the kneeling Brute, a pistol tucked comfortably in his hand. "I repeat: you will tell me, or you will die."
"No, please. I can't. I don't know." Wet stains streak down to the bottom of the hood. He's no longer addressing his captor past this point, instead, the ceiling above. "I never wanted to be here. Please, please, forgive whatever sins left me trapped in this purgatory, Lord."
Never anything remotely close to this absurdity. Who is this 'Lord' and why does he address him? Sins? Gale decides to press him further. "What are these 'sins?'"
"We're all sinners. We're all sinners if we deserve these demons . . . deserve this hell." His head bows.
Nothing. Still incomprehensible. He raises the gun next to the prisoner's ear, and cocks the hammer with a hard, metallic click. "You have no information? Then I have no further use for you."
The prisoner stiffens and chokes out a whimper before speaking hurriedly: "Hail, holy Queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To you we cry, the children of Eve; to you we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in the land of exile. Turn--"
Gale begins to feel something new. An odd, muted sensation -- frustration. What is this nonsense? Code, perhaps? It sounds like it's been learned by rote. The barrel is pressed to the prisoner's forehead. "Silence. What is this?"
In response, the hood flutters faster around his mouth. "Turn, then, most gracious advocate, your eyes of mercy toward us; lead us home at last and show us the blessed fruit of your womb, Jesus: O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary."
"Tell me."
A long pause falls, filled only by the sound of labored breathing.
"What is it?"
The prisoner leans into the gun, and says more firmly now: "May God have mercy on your soul."
God, soul. They are familiar, this is all so familiar, but he cannot remember the meaning. No matter. Frustration and confusion boil behind a blank face and urge the inevitable twitch of his index finger.
Blam.
The body slumps, and the spent casing rolls in circles on the floor. As Gale watches, the words come back to him, written now in a perfect memory and repeated in an equally perfect monotone. "Hail, holy Queen, Mother of mercy . . ."
What does it mean?
Characters: Gale, a Brute
Prompt: 077. What?
Word Count: 449
Rating: R-ish? More violence, o no.
Summary: Gale has a religious experience of sorts.
Author's Note: Investigating another aspect of change, post-Atma.
The black hood flutters in and out, level with the prisoner's mouth. Hyperventilation. And the noises, the sobbing. It's hard for him to breathe. Gale's never seen anything like it. Never seen a prisoner respond this way. This fear of death presents an interesting opportunity, though. The strategist stands in front of the kneeling Brute, a pistol tucked comfortably in his hand. "I repeat: you will tell me, or you will die."
"No, please. I can't. I don't know." Wet stains streak down to the bottom of the hood. He's no longer addressing his captor past this point, instead, the ceiling above. "I never wanted to be here. Please, please, forgive whatever sins left me trapped in this purgatory, Lord."
Never anything remotely close to this absurdity. Who is this 'Lord' and why does he address him? Sins? Gale decides to press him further. "What are these 'sins?'"
"We're all sinners. We're all sinners if we deserve these demons . . . deserve this hell." His head bows.
Nothing. Still incomprehensible. He raises the gun next to the prisoner's ear, and cocks the hammer with a hard, metallic click. "You have no information? Then I have no further use for you."
The prisoner stiffens and chokes out a whimper before speaking hurriedly: "Hail, holy Queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To you we cry, the children of Eve; to you we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in the land of exile. Turn--"
Gale begins to feel something new. An odd, muted sensation -- frustration. What is this nonsense? Code, perhaps? It sounds like it's been learned by rote. The barrel is pressed to the prisoner's forehead. "Silence. What is this?"
In response, the hood flutters faster around his mouth. "Turn, then, most gracious advocate, your eyes of mercy toward us; lead us home at last and show us the blessed fruit of your womb, Jesus: O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary."
"Tell me."
A long pause falls, filled only by the sound of labored breathing.
"What is it?"
The prisoner leans into the gun, and says more firmly now: "May God have mercy on your soul."
God, soul. They are familiar, this is all so familiar, but he cannot remember the meaning. No matter. Frustration and confusion boil behind a blank face and urge the inevitable twitch of his index finger.
Blam.
The body slumps, and the spent casing rolls in circles on the floor. As Gale watches, the words come back to him, written now in a perfect memory and repeated in an equally perfect monotone. "Hail, holy Queen, Mother of mercy . . ."
What does it mean?