He should know this by now. He should fucking know this. You let one side down just for a second and they all fall. One second of weakness and the universe slaps you like the bitch you are. Three seconds after she starts to run he realizes that she's running and that's enough time for her to get well out of reach.
He should kill her now. He should take the shot on Hobbes while he has it. She was nothing, she was bait, she's not even human, and whether she dies here or gets away should be of no consequence at all to him. She's not his prey and it's stupid to make her so.
But he's angry, so incredibly fucking angry with the shot still ringing in his ears. He's planned this, planned it well, it was supposed to work for him because nothing else has in his whole fucking life, and she's ruining it and he wants to drag her back by the hair and make her do it right.
Rage floods his brain. Cripples it. For an instant the red in his right eye bleeds over to his left and all he can see is a crimson sea with moving shadows of yellow, blood and gold before his eyes.
He fires at her as he charges out of the shadows. Or maybe he's firing at Hobbes. He doesn't even know anymore. Fuck. He wants blood. He wants to feel alive.
And it all breaks through, like a lead weight through tissue paper. You push and you push and finally you break through and you realize that every plan, every justification is gone like a flash in the pan. All you have left is instinct, all that's left is the dark behind the eyes.
Good girl he thinks gratefully, eyes closed. He hears her running, hears her hit the ground. And he knows that Pinocchio is following because, well. Sometimes you can count on someone to play into a trap.
He stands and sees the world go by frame by frame. He feels like he's moving very slow. There's a terrified streak of limbs that crosses the open lot, Rave. Running for her life. And then he lifted his gun just as Pinocchio burst into view, going after her, too fast. She'd never get away...
"Pinocchio." Gun raised, eyes wide open. The names comes out of him like a scream. He squeezes off a round placidly, aiming for his chest.
Viper bite and her arm is hot. Too bad she's racing the wind and its fangs don't stick. Racing the wind, sands shifting over sands, dark sky, pounding feet.
The girl isn't thinking, doesn't care about the pop pop click behind her. Running away is all she knows. No men, no more fear. She can run forever if she has to. She's been running for years.
Straight line, sharp turn, turn again, get lost. By the time the burst of adrenaline wears off and the neural net sparks up again, she can see but has no idea where she's at. Factory walls bleeding rust down the sides, rusty blood oozing from where her arm was grazed. Not a viper bite, just a bullet. Just her arm.
Her pounding feet slow and stop. A fast look behind her, a fast look around, and she can see through to where the ground car is abandoned. To where the man and the gun and the man and the gun and the man and the blood are. It's not a fairy tale anymore. It's not Prince Charming. It's Tom and he looks like murder. She can see it, and this--this is one thing she can't unsee.
She doesn't even know that she's screaming again, the horror tearing at the tape against her lips, her voice oozing from her throat.
He hears his name. He hears the bitch's screaming. He doesn't hear the shot. His legs are carrying him forward with the heedlessness that comes when the higher brain shuts down and all that's left is the reptile mind, the part that wants to kill and eat and fuck. She's in the open. The both are. Can pick them both off, just like he wanted to; they're barely even moving.
It's going to be easy. It's going to be so easy. It's all going to go right after all.
And yet somehow it barely even surprises him when his legs give out under him and he crumples to his knees, the gun still in his outstretched hand, still aiming, and he can't make his finger squeeze. Something hot is running down his side. He glances down and the blood doesn't surprise him either.
It's not pain, far on the left side of his chest. It's a dull burn.
He shouldn't wonder at the fact that it's ending here, like this. He should wonder at the fact that it hasn't ended sooner. It's his fault, it all is, but all he really regrets right now is...
No. Nothing. His breath goes ragged and he stares down at the blood pooling in his cupped hands.
Down but not dead, dammit, the shot went wide. Somewhere, he can hear Rave's muffled screaming, and a part of him is worried, scrambling fear and regret not unlike the kind that had dogged him on the long journey here, from that letter. She's an innocent in all this. She shouldn't be here, not after everything else she's been through...
Most of him doesn't care, not yet. Rule one of combat: you're not safe until your out of the hotzone. They were still waist deep.
Slowly, Hobbes walked forward, rage boiling through him. He sharply kicked the gun out of Mike's hand. The shot was bad, but not killing. Not killing, and that's what he'd come here to do, isn't it? Save the girl, kill the bad guy.
He stood over Mike, starring at him. Hating him, down to his atoms and molecules. But he said nothing else. He looked him over, looking for guns. Nothing, no back up. Stupid. Could be killing. Not his problem.
So Tom Hobbes, not Prince Charming, scooped up Mike's gun, spat in the dirt, and walked away.
It could have ended tonight, but even a fall from grace couldn't make him kill a man that was down and wounded and not able to defend himself.
She doesn't want to be here, not anymore. They, the men, one closes in on the other and she watches. Watches the blood. Watches the guns. Watches until she squeezes her eyes shut and forces code to manifest.
0010000100100001001000010010000100100001
SOS. Help.
No one to help her. Have to help herself. Johnny, get your gun. That's an old vid. She watched it once. Trapped in his head. Did the only thing he could. 011100110110111101110011
She opens her eyes and finds shrapnel, twisted metal, a way. The girl moves closer, cuts where she's tied, forcing the code. Forcing it to stay. Same squence. Same goal. Force the storm to stay out to sea.
The girl's got her gun. Her code. She helps herself, no need for a White Knight soaked in blood.
He can't squeeze the trigger and he can't stop it when Hobbes knocks the gun from his hand. It goes flying and he grunts at the pain in his hand, somehow worse than the hole in his shoulder.
And the prick is walking away with his gun, his fucking gun, and he's not dead. Maybe not dying.
Somehow it feels like the worst in a long series of insults.
"You better fucking kill me." He snarls it with the last little bit of his energy, crumpled and bleeding on the ground but still wanting to bite anyone who comes too near, something wild with his foot caught in a trap. "I'll find you, you prick. I'll hurt you. I know you." He coughs and tastes copper in the back of his throat.
"You want this to end, you fucking kill me now."
Maybe, just maybe, it doesn't sound like a threat.
Hobbes didn't turn around. What he needed was to find Rave, get her home, get her safe, forget tonight ever happened. Start over as soon as he got back to Siam, maybe get in touch with the PC, Ray. Let them take it from here on out.
"No," he said, over his shoulder, still walking. "This isn't your out, Pinocchio. I'm not putting you down like some mad animal. Animals don't know better."
He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, looking for Rave.
He should know this by now. He should fucking know this. You let one side down just for a second and they all fall. One second of weakness and the universe slaps you like the bitch you are. Three seconds after she starts to run he realizes that she's running and that's enough time for her to get well out of reach.
He should kill her now. He should take the shot on Hobbes while he has it. She was nothing, she was bait, she's not even human, and whether she dies here or gets away should be of no consequence at all to him. She's not his prey and it's stupid to make her so.
But he's angry, so incredibly fucking angry with the shot still ringing in his ears. He's planned this, planned it well, it was supposed to work for him because nothing else has in his whole fucking life, and she's ruining it and he wants to drag her back by the hair and make her do it right.
Rage floods his brain. Cripples it. For an instant the red in his right eye bleeds over to his left and all he can see is a crimson sea with moving shadows of yellow, blood and gold before his eyes.
He fires at her as he charges out of the shadows. Or maybe he's firing at Hobbes. He doesn't even know anymore. Fuck. He wants blood. He wants to feel alive.
It's not fair.
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Good girl he thinks gratefully, eyes closed. He hears her running, hears her hit the ground. And he knows that Pinocchio is following because, well. Sometimes you can count on someone to play into a trap.
He stands and sees the world go by frame by frame. He feels like he's moving very slow. There's a terrified streak of limbs that crosses the open lot, Rave. Running for her life. And then he lifted his gun just as Pinocchio burst into view, going after her, too fast. She'd never get away...
"Pinocchio." Gun raised, eyes wide open. The names comes out of him like a scream. He squeezes off a round placidly, aiming for his chest.
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The girl isn't thinking, doesn't care about the pop pop click behind her. Running away is all she knows. No men, no more fear. She can run forever if she has to. She's been running for years.
Straight line, sharp turn, turn again, get lost. By the time the burst of adrenaline wears off and the neural net sparks up again, she can see but has no idea where she's at. Factory walls bleeding rust down the sides, rusty blood oozing from where her arm was grazed. Not a viper bite, just a bullet. Just her arm.
Her pounding feet slow and stop. A fast look behind her, a fast look around, and she can see through to where the ground car is abandoned. To where the man and the gun and the man and the gun and the man and the blood are. It's not a fairy tale anymore. It's not Prince Charming. It's Tom and he looks like murder. She can see it, and this--this is one thing she can't unsee.
She doesn't even know that she's screaming again, the horror tearing at the tape against her lips, her voice oozing from her throat.
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It's going to be easy. It's going to be so easy. It's all going to go right after all.
And yet somehow it barely even surprises him when his legs give out under him and he crumples to his knees, the gun still in his outstretched hand, still aiming, and he can't make his finger squeeze. Something hot is running down his side. He glances down and the blood doesn't surprise him either.
It's not pain, far on the left side of his chest. It's a dull burn.
He shouldn't wonder at the fact that it's ending here, like this. He should wonder at the fact that it hasn't ended sooner. It's his fault, it all is, but all he really regrets right now is...
No. Nothing. His breath goes ragged and he stares down at the blood pooling in his cupped hands.
"Fuck."
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Most of him doesn't care, not yet. Rule one of combat: you're not safe until your out of the hotzone. They were still waist deep.
Slowly, Hobbes walked forward, rage boiling through him. He sharply kicked the gun out of Mike's hand. The shot was bad, but not killing. Not killing, and that's what he'd come here to do, isn't it? Save the girl, kill the bad guy.
He stood over Mike, starring at him. Hating him, down to his atoms and molecules. But he said nothing else. He looked him over, looking for guns. Nothing, no back up. Stupid. Could be killing. Not his problem.
So Tom Hobbes, not Prince Charming, scooped up Mike's gun, spat in the dirt, and walked away.
It could have ended tonight, but even a fall from grace couldn't make him kill a man that was down and wounded and not able to defend himself.
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0010000100100001001000010010000100100001
SOS. Help.
No one to help her. Have to help herself. Johnny, get your gun. That's an old vid. She watched it once. Trapped in his head. Did the only thing he could. 011100110110111101110011
She opens her eyes and finds shrapnel, twisted metal, a way. The girl moves closer, cuts where she's tied, forcing the code. Forcing it to stay. Same squence. Same goal. Force the storm to stay out to sea.
The girl's got her gun. Her code. She helps herself, no need for a White Knight soaked in blood.
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And the prick is walking away with his gun, his fucking gun, and he's not dead. Maybe not dying.
Somehow it feels like the worst in a long series of insults.
"You better fucking kill me." He snarls it with the last little bit of his energy, crumpled and bleeding on the ground but still wanting to bite anyone who comes too near, something wild with his foot caught in a trap. "I'll find you, you prick. I'll hurt you. I know you." He coughs and tastes copper in the back of his throat.
"You want this to end, you fucking kill me now."
Maybe, just maybe, it doesn't sound like a threat.
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"No," he said, over his shoulder, still walking. "This isn't your out, Pinocchio. I'm not putting you down like some mad animal. Animals don't know better."
He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, looking for Rave.
"You're not worth the bullet."
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