Meteora
Title: All the Time in the World
Word Count: 891
The train tracks cut a surgical slash across the mud-cracked wastes, a cold black scar marked with buckled wood and ties that had warped and pulled out of the ground. Originally it had been intended to terminate at a grand central station just outside Medius, where passengers could then board a small shuttle train to take them into the city proper, but when the third war broke out the railway was abandoned, leaving only the tracks, a mock-up train, and a pitiful shell of a station several miles outside the city limits.
It took painfully long to reach it - Sketch was able to fly ahead and scout the area for Deviants, or possibly other Medius escapees that were waiting out the storm, but then returned to Azazel's side to walk on foot. It was odd how much it bothered him, being that he was never able to fly in the city. Something about the open air, he supposed, the empty space around him, made him so desperate to take to the skies.
Light was creeping above the horizon when they reached the station and the abandoned train inside it, and it occurred to Sketch - after the fact, as usual - that one of the only structures near the city was probably the first place the Deviants would come looking. Azazel seemed to be thinking the same thing as he stood near the steps and stared up at the stucture, his ears twitching at the sound of the wind howling through the exposed beams of the roof.
"This doesn't seem like a good idea," he said quietly, shielding his eyes from the blowing sand.
"Not really," Sketch said. "But it's clear, for now. And it'll be a lot easier to hold if they find us."
He totally expected Azazel to argue with him - point out that he was being stupid, or any number of issues that he'd probably come up with during the walk - but instead the hybrid simply trudged up the steps into the station and leaned through the door that Sketch had pried open to investigate the train.
"Smells like death in here," he commented, pressing the back of his hand to his nose. He twisted to look toward the back of the car, following the scent, and coughed loudly. "Lovely," he said, spotting bullet-ridden mummified corpse curled against the back wall. "Wonder how long that's been here."
"Next one over is clean," Sketch told him, squeezing through the doorway. "Come on."
Aside from a faint vibration as the wind whipped through the mostly-dismantled station and battered the walls, it was near-silent in the car. The thin carpet muffled their footsteps as they walked, and Sketch found himself skimming his fingers across the tops of the thickly-cushioned chairs, the fabric smooth and unaffected by the passage of time in such an arid environment. He walked until he reached the middle of the car, where the aisle opened up into a small coffee area that allowed him the best view of the station's platform and the space beyond that - at least, what little was visible through the dark and the storm.
"Better digs than the dorms," Azazel cracked as he lowered himself with a wince into one of the chairs. A few seconds of searching later and he found the lever that reclined the seat. He shuffled around for a few moments, trying to get comfortable, before finally curling himself into a ball. Sketch settled himself against the counter of the coffee bar and crossed his arms over his chest, staring out the window, and glanced over his shoulder every few minutes until he was sure that Azazel was sleeping.
To say he was exhausted was an understatement, but even though there was ample space to sleep, and even though sleep would probably be for the best, his mind was racing so chaotically it was almost guaranteed he wouldn't be able to rest. Something had been tickling at the back of his thoughts ever since he'd crashed into the dirt, but in his haste to find Azazel and get them both to some sort of shelter he'd pushed his concerns aside.
He stared out into the dark, feeling his eyes alternately focus and strain on the debris thrown about by the wind, on the cobblestone pathway leading from the empty desert into the station, and eventually had to close his eyes to spare himself the inevitable headache. He'd been created with the best enhancements money and technology could offer - of all the human-compatible animal genetics available, the falcons were known to transfer the most exceptional eyesight to inhumans, better even than enhanced biomechs, but even he was having trouble seeing clearly in the chaos outside. And while he knew that humans were capable of becoming exceptional sharpshooters, he also knew there was an incredible limit on their eyesight, reflexes, and reaction time - it was part of the reason he'd survived the last two years killing, and fleeing, from humans.
Which begged the question of how, in the few seconds he was airborne, a Deviant was able to sight him - a moving target in a heavy windstorm - clearly enough to score hits with eight successive shots.
The worst part was that the longer he thought on it, the more he was certain he knew the answer.
Word Count: 891
The train tracks cut a surgical slash across the mud-cracked wastes, a cold black scar marked with buckled wood and ties that had warped and pulled out of the ground. Originally it had been intended to terminate at a grand central station just outside Medius, where passengers could then board a small shuttle train to take them into the city proper, but when the third war broke out the railway was abandoned, leaving only the tracks, a mock-up train, and a pitiful shell of a station several miles outside the city limits.
It took painfully long to reach it - Sketch was able to fly ahead and scout the area for Deviants, or possibly other Medius escapees that were waiting out the storm, but then returned to Azazel's side to walk on foot. It was odd how much it bothered him, being that he was never able to fly in the city. Something about the open air, he supposed, the empty space around him, made him so desperate to take to the skies.
Light was creeping above the horizon when they reached the station and the abandoned train inside it, and it occurred to Sketch - after the fact, as usual - that one of the only structures near the city was probably the first place the Deviants would come looking. Azazel seemed to be thinking the same thing as he stood near the steps and stared up at the stucture, his ears twitching at the sound of the wind howling through the exposed beams of the roof.
"This doesn't seem like a good idea," he said quietly, shielding his eyes from the blowing sand.
"Not really," Sketch said. "But it's clear, for now. And it'll be a lot easier to hold if they find us."
He totally expected Azazel to argue with him - point out that he was being stupid, or any number of issues that he'd probably come up with during the walk - but instead the hybrid simply trudged up the steps into the station and leaned through the door that Sketch had pried open to investigate the train.
"Smells like death in here," he commented, pressing the back of his hand to his nose. He twisted to look toward the back of the car, following the scent, and coughed loudly. "Lovely," he said, spotting bullet-ridden mummified corpse curled against the back wall. "Wonder how long that's been here."
"Next one over is clean," Sketch told him, squeezing through the doorway. "Come on."
Aside from a faint vibration as the wind whipped through the mostly-dismantled station and battered the walls, it was near-silent in the car. The thin carpet muffled their footsteps as they walked, and Sketch found himself skimming his fingers across the tops of the thickly-cushioned chairs, the fabric smooth and unaffected by the passage of time in such an arid environment. He walked until he reached the middle of the car, where the aisle opened up into a small coffee area that allowed him the best view of the station's platform and the space beyond that - at least, what little was visible through the dark and the storm.
"Better digs than the dorms," Azazel cracked as he lowered himself with a wince into one of the chairs. A few seconds of searching later and he found the lever that reclined the seat. He shuffled around for a few moments, trying to get comfortable, before finally curling himself into a ball. Sketch settled himself against the counter of the coffee bar and crossed his arms over his chest, staring out the window, and glanced over his shoulder every few minutes until he was sure that Azazel was sleeping.
To say he was exhausted was an understatement, but even though there was ample space to sleep, and even though sleep would probably be for the best, his mind was racing so chaotically it was almost guaranteed he wouldn't be able to rest. Something had been tickling at the back of his thoughts ever since he'd crashed into the dirt, but in his haste to find Azazel and get them both to some sort of shelter he'd pushed his concerns aside.
He stared out into the dark, feeling his eyes alternately focus and strain on the debris thrown about by the wind, on the cobblestone pathway leading from the empty desert into the station, and eventually had to close his eyes to spare himself the inevitable headache. He'd been created with the best enhancements money and technology could offer - of all the human-compatible animal genetics available, the falcons were known to transfer the most exceptional eyesight to inhumans, better even than enhanced biomechs, but even he was having trouble seeing clearly in the chaos outside. And while he knew that humans were capable of becoming exceptional sharpshooters, he also knew there was an incredible limit on their eyesight, reflexes, and reaction time - it was part of the reason he'd survived the last two years killing, and fleeing, from humans.
Which begged the question of how, in the few seconds he was airborne, a Deviant was able to sight him - a moving target in a heavy windstorm - clearly enough to score hits with eight successive shots.
The worst part was that the longer he thought on it, the more he was certain he knew the answer.