Past-Part Fills Part 7
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Past-Part Fills Part Seven
Fills from past parts can go here!
Fills from the current part (part 22) MUST go in that part's post until it is full.
Link to the original request (and if an ongoing fill, any previous chapters/sections).
Don't forget to link your new fill at the fill ( Read more... )
“RAAAAAAHHH!”
Before anyone could so much as blink, he grabbed the lid of the nearest trash can, and swinging it wildly before him like a madman, bulldozed his way through and out of the alley.
Herakles was not as fortunate.
Coward, he thought begrudgingly as he glared after Sadiq’s retreating back, before the sounds of resuming gunfire wrested his attention back to more pressing matters at hand - his survival.
The newcomer moved again as the mob surged forward, sunlight glinting off his blade as he twisted and twirled; a furious whirlwind lashing out at burly men two, no, three times his size. Herakles saw another flash, followed by an explosive bang before he was coughing, choking.
“Move.”
His eyes and nostrils still burning from the smoke and ash, Herakles only realised he was on the ground again when he heard the soft, urgent voice close beside him. He looked up and saw the newcomer to his left (dark hair and dark eyes; dark like a raven’s wing) - he’d pushed Herakles out of harm’s way during the explosion.
Before he could speak, there was another explosive flash, lightning-bright, and the man moved again, this time almost crouching over Herakles. He hissed, flinching as if in pain. Herakles thought he saw streaks of crimson stain the ground beside them, but he couldn’t be sure.
As he tried to stand, Herakles’ fingers found their way around something cool and smooth to touch - a clear bottle filled with a thick black emulsion. Without hesitation, Herakles grabbed the bottle, thrusting it into a nearby fire and lighting the cloth-wick attached to it.
He flung the bottle towards the mob-
-a third explosion rocked through the alley, debris and shrapnel soaring through the air.
When their vision was cleared of acrid smoke and choking vapours, the fighting mob could see neither Herakles nor the strange man with the sword.
___
iii.
February 14, 2kXX. 10:43 AM
“You’ll need to get someone to look at your arm and shoulder.” Herakles said as he followed after his unexpected saviour, jogging to keep up with the other’s quickening steps.
“It’s not serious,” came the soft reply. The man did not pause to look at him.
“You’re still bleeding.”
“Please do not worry. It’s just a flesh wound.”
“Well… at least let me wrap it up for you.” Herakles said, persistent. Why he’d said it, he wasn’t quite sure, especially since he knew nothing of this strange man. But he’d seen the flicker of discomfort crossing the man’s face more than once, and that was enough.
“Please. I owe you my life.”
At his words, the man faltered in his tracks, glancing back at Herakles. His gaze was tinged with doubt; after a long, tentative silence, he nodded.
*
“Forgive my intrusion, but I can’t help but wonder… what business did you have with the Lafayettes?”
From the way Kiku was watching him, it was clear to Herakles that the man didn’t think he would fit in at all with… well, whatever it was that the Lafayettes made it their business.
Or Kiku’s.
They had found an old, abandoned workshop nestled in the slums of Old Nichol. Here, in a decrepit old room hidden from prying eyes and ears, Kiku had allowed Herakles to help dress his wounds.
“None whatsoever,” Herakles replied, cleaning away the blood and grime with as much as he could with his kerchief. Kiku had been right. There was no trace of foreign objects embedded in the wound; it looked simply to be a graze from either a stray bullet or shrapnel. He was lucky.
“Sadiq and I got into an argument with each other. By the time we’d noticed where we were, the mob started firing at us.” His gaze still trained on the back of Kiku’s exposed left shoulder, Herakles resisted the urge to gently stroke at the trail of small teal butterflies imprinted against pale skin.
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