rapid eye follow the chain of thought until the silence ends
It is the second-to-last day of the plagues, and, unexpectedly, the sun rises. For five hours and 35 minutes, it is a perfectly normal, if a bit cold, Chicago day
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There's a bandage around his neck that wouldn't be nearly as noticable if he hadn't gotten frustrated with the collar on his shirt and loosened the buttons and the tie with frantic, clawing fingers. He remembers vaguely what the wound is from, and that's one of the few things he can remember- shock treatments, almost every day. I don't remember why.
I don't remember.There's something at the back of his mind, something that might make that make sense, but he can't remember. He remembers walking on four, not ( ... )
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Air raid sirens usually mean something heading in, you know, from the air, so Rachel scurries under the nearest tree to take cover from potential fiery death from above. Or frogs or whatever the hell else might fall now. She looks up as the sky begins to fade, taking another step toward the tree, her shoulder connecting with something unexpectedly yielding. She yelps again, and looks up.
Before they're plunged into total darkness, Rachel sees the face of the man already under the tree.
"Mr. Sark?!" she shouts. "What's happening? Do you know?"
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"I don't know.." he starts. There's something about the tone and cadence of his voice that's all wrong. None of that pretentious, casual confidence- still distinctly lilting and high-pitched, still British, but it sounds wrong.
He's still confused by the concept of words, because he hasn't used them in the last four days (or ever?). He chews on his lip and cringes for no reason that he can think of. "I don't... What did you call me?" He feels he ought to be speaking louder, to be heard over the sirens, but he's only just barely managed speaking. Volume is something else entirely.
...There's something else though. Looking at her. She seems so familiar, but in the few memories he has, he can't see her face. It's awkward and uncomfortable and like fumbling in the dark.
....When did it get so dark out here?
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There's a clinking of bottles, glass on glass, as Rachel sets down her canvas grocery bag. She throws out a hand, waving it, until it connects with something she recognizes as "someone else"--muscle and bone, body warmth under very nice fabric. It's an arm, a bicep, and she closes her hand around it, moving closer.
They're standing side by side, she knows this, and yet she can barely make him out in the thick darkness that's fallen over everything.
"Why would I call you anything else?"
She's heard how he sounds. Granted, she doesn't know the man terribly well, just a handful of meetings. But it's enough to catch that something's off.
"Mr. Sark... it's me, Rachel. Don't you recognize me? Is everything okay?"
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And she is not taking anymore. Currently, she is wandering through the Chicago streets, tearing into every monster that crosses her path with claws and teeth. Something about this whole plague situation irks her and she doesn't know why. She doesn't understand and if the city's going to hell... Well, she'll just give it a little hell right now.
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There is also, at the end of the street, a Pyramid Head. It's about the same size as Anka, but almost cuts a less striking figure -- or it would if it weren't moving like that and dragging a knife as long as it is tall. With each step, the knife scrapes along the ground behind it, and it appears to take very little notice of the dragon it's walking toward.
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...This is actually not what she's thinking. What she's thinking is that it's something that sets her deeply, deeply on edge and she thinks she might want to run away from it, but... No. She's an assassin. She's stronger than that.
She growls and claws at the ground and with a bloodcurdling roar moves to charge at the creature, caring not for its bigass knife or its creepy.
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Something that heavy falls swiftly, even when it's met with several hundred pounds of dragon. Knives do not usually stand up so well to dragon flesh, but that logic doesn't seem to be stopping this one.
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As if it had never sealed, the Tower's sub-basement has returned. Those venturing down will find the same shelves, the same journal, the same swept floor with nary a hint of dust - and the same standing Rift opening, radiating dim psychic malice.
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"...What the fuck?"
And then he remembers. Right. The ninth plague. Darkness.
They are so fucked.
He grits his teeth. No fucking way is he going to let a whole herd of people die on his watch. He turns back to the group. "Just stay calm and pick up the pace. We ain't got that far to go."
...Yeah. Just a couple of blocks. That's not long at all.
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And perhaps the people closest to the mouth of the alley realize that the monster was actually a bit farther away than they thought it was, because it's quite a bit bigger than they first realized, being well over the height of a man.
It's also a bit dumb, so after the first swipe of a hand at the nearest person, it swings around and runs a few steps away before turning around again for another lunge.
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Vincent's foregone smaller weapons in favor of shotguns ever since monster day. He barks an order for the group to pull back and they do, dragging the injured party with them and before the... Thing can get another swipe in, Vincent aims his gun and shoots it in one of its heads.
At least it's stupid. And, hopefully, responsive to a face full of buckshot. "Go around me. I'll hold it off," he orders the other archangels with this group, pumping the shotgun and lining up another strike in case the first shot doesn't get it.
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And then it falls flat on its faces.
The nearby car radio, though, it still going crazy.
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She's ramped up the glowyness about a dozenfold. It's not hard--with all the fear she's choking down right now, it's almost nice to give it some kind of release.
The problem seems to be that it's doing jackshit right now to light up the area. There's a thin nimbus visible around her, and what she can see makes her skin crawl.
No no no, no no no no. She's not going to panic again. "All right, Maitland," she mutters. "First priority: make sure your people are all right."
Marshall. Sydney. Owen. Jack. The list is depressingly short, but at least it makes things easier.
She dials down her glow, at least a little--enough that she can still see to move, but hopefully won't be too obvious a target. The sound of the sirens still wails in her head, eerie and nauseating, and she's not sure if she would prefer the noise or the silence of the Kashtta right now.
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He was out when the plague hit, which means he has no idea what the status of the tower or his daughter is, but hearing Maitland out has given him a new directive. Sydney can take care of herself and he'd like to think that nothing will take the Tower.
"Which is where you should be," he barks. Yeah, tall order, trying to boss her around when there are creatures everywhere and they don't respond well to guns.
...Thankfully, he doesn't have a gun. He has a pipe. It was really a fluke that he learned that they work well on them, but... Well, he's not questioning it.
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And then she realizes it's Bristow. About two seconds too late, but oh well.
"I hate you," she says.
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"No, you don't," he says, letting her hand go. "I'm just your boss."
He stares at the creatures and taps the pipe on the ground. "I can give you a straight shot into the Tower. They respond to blunt-force trauma." That's what he's calling it. It sounds better than saying, 'They go down when I beat them with a pipe.'
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