Metal Whispers
Title: Like a Bomb Went Off
Word Count: 1646
The floor was covered with torn canvas, splintered wood, and splashes of paint from the cans that lay dented and empty against the walls. Keelin was sitting beneath the window, the only thing not smeared with paint in the entire room, her hands knotted in her bangs as she rocked back and forth. He stood cautiously in the doorway, watching her for several moments before his eyes started to roam the room - something he felt immediately guilty for, as it was clear that Keelin could use some comforting, but he was already agitated and nervous from having spent just a few hours in enemy territory. Besides, something about the lofty studio just didn't feel right. It didn't feel like something an eccentric artist had done in a possible fit of rage. It felt like a goddamn war zone.
He felt her watching him as he stepped into the room, gingerly trying to avoid the bulk of the noisy debris and still feeling things crunch under his feet. One particular spot on the wall had caught his attention, an area where dangling cables indicated these large pieces of artwork had once hung - in the empty spaces, the battered brick was chipped and pitted, but not in any sort of uniform manner. He pressed his hand to it, poking at the holes no bigger than the tip of his fingers, and realized that there were large squares of unblemished brick directly below and behind the dangling cables - in other words, behind the artwork that had once hung there.
Curious, he took his knife from his pocket and flipped the thinnest blade open, using it to dig in one of the holes. Nothing, just the scrape of brick. He tried another, and another, until finally on his fourth attempt he heard the tick tick of the blade striking metal. Balancing his other hand palm-up beneath the hole, he dug and gouged until a small, blackened sphere the size of a cherry pit dropped out. A few minutes longer, and he had a nice collection of the things. Rolling them in his palm, he crouched and pawed at the chunks of painted wood at his feet until he found what he was looking for - all along the cracked edges where the wood had broken apart, the spheres were either lodged in the grain or loose on the floor beneath the scraps.
"Quinn?" Keelin seemed to have come back to herself, thanks to either self-control or her curiosity at his actions.
"You said this friend of yours had a big mouth?" he asked, standing up and looking at the wall again. The bearings seemed to have entered the wall almost perfectly straight - when he faced the opposite wall, the fireplaces stared back at him. When he saw her nod from the corner of her eye, he tossed the handful of spheres at her - she yelped as she tried to catch them, only snatching a few from the air before the rest of them pattered to the ground. "Seems that mouth got him in some trouble."
"What are these?" she asked, holding them up to the light as he worked his way toward the fireplace. Leaning over, he picked at the chunks of burnt wood and buildup of ash, proof that the fireplace was functional rather than decorative.
"You ever see a claymore?" he asked, standing with his back to the fireplace and examining the toppled furniture. Something about the heavy armchair, which lay on one side with the bottom facing the fireplace, seemed odd.
"The sword?" she asked.
"The mines." He crouched in front of the chair and pressed his hand to the heavy wood that made up the swivel base. Sure enough, it was littered with holes, which meant one of two things - either the chair was already flipped over before the room got shredded, or someone had flipped it in a damn hurry.
"In a museum, maybe," she said, still staring at the ball bearings in her hand.
"Yeah, they're not quite so big and bulky anymore." He crouch-walked around the chair and touched the leather of the seat. "Most of them are remote-controlled, about the size of a baseball." Sure enough, whatever chunks of metal had managed to penetrate the swivel base had passed right through the cushion. Not many, but enough that the leather bore a whole host of punctures and a dull, matte coating of crusty grime. He scratched at it, not at all surprised when his fingernails came back with brown-red powder beneath them. "Probably flew down the chimney," he said, pointing over the chair to the fireplace with his clean hand, and scrubbing the fingers of the other against his jeans.
"Jesus..." she breathed, looking around at the carnage. "Thank God nobody was in here."
"Yeah." He stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and turned toward the door. "I'm going to take a look around," he told her. "You okay to stay here for a few minutes?" She nodded, dropping the beads of metal onto the floor and pulling her legs tight to her chest again - when he glanced over his shoulder before stepping into the hallway, she'd already resumed her rocking.
A few paces down the hallway he slumped against the wall and covered his face with his hands, biting his tongue - hard - to resist the urge to scream a few profanities. Clearly Keelin's friends at home were in no better situation than he was, not if her captain was getting ambushed by claymore droids in his own house.
There were two closed doors at the end of the hallway and a third halfway down, with a window that allowed some natural light to spill out into the dark space, enough that he could see more dark, matte-colored streaks and splatters along the floor. Whoever had been smart enough to duck and cover behind the recliner was bleeding, and bleeding bad, by the time they made it out of the room. He reflected on the state of the walls and furniture, and figured a second droid had probably followed the first, just to be thorough, a tactic he'd seen employed - and had employed himself - many times.
The first door was a combination linen and storage closet, and from the handprints on the wood and the state of the contents, had probably been the first stop. He followed the uneven footsteps to the first of the two doors at the end of the hall and, finding it slightly ajar, eased it open to enter a bathroom that looked more like a slaughterhouse. An open first aid kit lay on the floor, contents strewn about, an overturned bottle of iodine having left a brown splatter across the white tile. There was blood everywhere - on the floor, the counters, the walls, the long mirror, even spattered on the shower curtain. Paper packets that had held gauze pads and rolls were torn open and dropped everywhere, and the handyman's favorite bandage, duct tape, hung from the edge of the counter, secured by its sticky end. A balled up wad of fabric lay in the sink - a t-shirt, he realized as he picked it up, speckled with long-dried paint, decorated with shredded holes, and crusted with blood.
"Quinn?" Keelin called from down the hall. He quickly leaned out the door, looking for her, but she was apparently still in the studio.
"Yeah?" he answered, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Anything?"
"Nothing so far. Gimme a couple minutes." She made a noncommittal noise in response, and he took it as a sign that he didn't have much time before she came looking for him.
He pulled the t-shirt into shape, straigtening out areas where the blood had crusted the fabric together, and held it up to the light to examine the pattern of holes. Though the shirt itself was almost entirely soaked, the tears showed a definite pattern - the trail of impact ran from the upper arm, across the curve of the shoulder, and then in a diagonal line across the back. Crumpling the shirt up, he tossed it into the empty bathtub and headed back to the hallway. The t-shirt told him that whatever unfortunate soul was wearing it had been crouched behind the chair with their arms up to protect their head, and their body angled so that they wouldn't take the brunt of the punishment across their ribcage, where an errant ball-bearing between delicate bone would mean a punctured lung, or worse. The state of the bathroom told him that they'd survived, treated themselves and - he peeked briefly into an immaculate bedroom that only showed signs of a chronic reader - managed to escape.
Keelin was right where he'd left her, staring at the fireplace with a look of mute dread, as if she expected a droid to come flying down at any moment and blast her to pieces. She jumped and let out a little yelp of shock when Quinn joined her.
"Do you know any doctors?" he asked. Her eyes clouded, concerned and confused, and it was clear that she wanted to ask - something, however, be it fear or shock, seemed to make her think twice, and she shook her head. "What about medics?" he pressed. "Anybody who would be good with..." He paused, choosing his words. "Puncture wounds."
"Umm... Avril from the base was our first aid trainer..."
"Trustworthy?"
"Yeah," she said, nodding. "She's married to Dax's brother."
"How far?"
"They live on the West End..." Keelin looked at the floor, thinking. "Maybe ten, fifteen minutes from here?"
"You know the way?" When she nodded, he crossed the floor and offered her a hand. She stared at it a moment before sliding her fingers against his. "Then let's go," he told her, pulling her to her feet. "I don't think we have much time."
Word Count: 1646
The floor was covered with torn canvas, splintered wood, and splashes of paint from the cans that lay dented and empty against the walls. Keelin was sitting beneath the window, the only thing not smeared with paint in the entire room, her hands knotted in her bangs as she rocked back and forth. He stood cautiously in the doorway, watching her for several moments before his eyes started to roam the room - something he felt immediately guilty for, as it was clear that Keelin could use some comforting, but he was already agitated and nervous from having spent just a few hours in enemy territory. Besides, something about the lofty studio just didn't feel right. It didn't feel like something an eccentric artist had done in a possible fit of rage. It felt like a goddamn war zone.
He felt her watching him as he stepped into the room, gingerly trying to avoid the bulk of the noisy debris and still feeling things crunch under his feet. One particular spot on the wall had caught his attention, an area where dangling cables indicated these large pieces of artwork had once hung - in the empty spaces, the battered brick was chipped and pitted, but not in any sort of uniform manner. He pressed his hand to it, poking at the holes no bigger than the tip of his fingers, and realized that there were large squares of unblemished brick directly below and behind the dangling cables - in other words, behind the artwork that had once hung there.
Curious, he took his knife from his pocket and flipped the thinnest blade open, using it to dig in one of the holes. Nothing, just the scrape of brick. He tried another, and another, until finally on his fourth attempt he heard the tick tick of the blade striking metal. Balancing his other hand palm-up beneath the hole, he dug and gouged until a small, blackened sphere the size of a cherry pit dropped out. A few minutes longer, and he had a nice collection of the things. Rolling them in his palm, he crouched and pawed at the chunks of painted wood at his feet until he found what he was looking for - all along the cracked edges where the wood had broken apart, the spheres were either lodged in the grain or loose on the floor beneath the scraps.
"Quinn?" Keelin seemed to have come back to herself, thanks to either self-control or her curiosity at his actions.
"You said this friend of yours had a big mouth?" he asked, standing up and looking at the wall again. The bearings seemed to have entered the wall almost perfectly straight - when he faced the opposite wall, the fireplaces stared back at him. When he saw her nod from the corner of her eye, he tossed the handful of spheres at her - she yelped as she tried to catch them, only snatching a few from the air before the rest of them pattered to the ground. "Seems that mouth got him in some trouble."
"What are these?" she asked, holding them up to the light as he worked his way toward the fireplace. Leaning over, he picked at the chunks of burnt wood and buildup of ash, proof that the fireplace was functional rather than decorative.
"You ever see a claymore?" he asked, standing with his back to the fireplace and examining the toppled furniture. Something about the heavy armchair, which lay on one side with the bottom facing the fireplace, seemed odd.
"The sword?" she asked.
"The mines." He crouched in front of the chair and pressed his hand to the heavy wood that made up the swivel base. Sure enough, it was littered with holes, which meant one of two things - either the chair was already flipped over before the room got shredded, or someone had flipped it in a damn hurry.
"In a museum, maybe," she said, still staring at the ball bearings in her hand.
"Yeah, they're not quite so big and bulky anymore." He crouch-walked around the chair and touched the leather of the seat. "Most of them are remote-controlled, about the size of a baseball." Sure enough, whatever chunks of metal had managed to penetrate the swivel base had passed right through the cushion. Not many, but enough that the leather bore a whole host of punctures and a dull, matte coating of crusty grime. He scratched at it, not at all surprised when his fingernails came back with brown-red powder beneath them. "Probably flew down the chimney," he said, pointing over the chair to the fireplace with his clean hand, and scrubbing the fingers of the other against his jeans.
"Jesus..." she breathed, looking around at the carnage. "Thank God nobody was in here."
"Yeah." He stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and turned toward the door. "I'm going to take a look around," he told her. "You okay to stay here for a few minutes?" She nodded, dropping the beads of metal onto the floor and pulling her legs tight to her chest again - when he glanced over his shoulder before stepping into the hallway, she'd already resumed her rocking.
A few paces down the hallway he slumped against the wall and covered his face with his hands, biting his tongue - hard - to resist the urge to scream a few profanities. Clearly Keelin's friends at home were in no better situation than he was, not if her captain was getting ambushed by claymore droids in his own house.
There were two closed doors at the end of the hallway and a third halfway down, with a window that allowed some natural light to spill out into the dark space, enough that he could see more dark, matte-colored streaks and splatters along the floor. Whoever had been smart enough to duck and cover behind the recliner was bleeding, and bleeding bad, by the time they made it out of the room. He reflected on the state of the walls and furniture, and figured a second droid had probably followed the first, just to be thorough, a tactic he'd seen employed - and had employed himself - many times.
The first door was a combination linen and storage closet, and from the handprints on the wood and the state of the contents, had probably been the first stop. He followed the uneven footsteps to the first of the two doors at the end of the hall and, finding it slightly ajar, eased it open to enter a bathroom that looked more like a slaughterhouse. An open first aid kit lay on the floor, contents strewn about, an overturned bottle of iodine having left a brown splatter across the white tile. There was blood everywhere - on the floor, the counters, the walls, the long mirror, even spattered on the shower curtain. Paper packets that had held gauze pads and rolls were torn open and dropped everywhere, and the handyman's favorite bandage, duct tape, hung from the edge of the counter, secured by its sticky end. A balled up wad of fabric lay in the sink - a t-shirt, he realized as he picked it up, speckled with long-dried paint, decorated with shredded holes, and crusted with blood.
"Quinn?" Keelin called from down the hall. He quickly leaned out the door, looking for her, but she was apparently still in the studio.
"Yeah?" he answered, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Anything?"
"Nothing so far. Gimme a couple minutes." She made a noncommittal noise in response, and he took it as a sign that he didn't have much time before she came looking for him.
He pulled the t-shirt into shape, straigtening out areas where the blood had crusted the fabric together, and held it up to the light to examine the pattern of holes. Though the shirt itself was almost entirely soaked, the tears showed a definite pattern - the trail of impact ran from the upper arm, across the curve of the shoulder, and then in a diagonal line across the back. Crumpling the shirt up, he tossed it into the empty bathtub and headed back to the hallway. The t-shirt told him that whatever unfortunate soul was wearing it had been crouched behind the chair with their arms up to protect their head, and their body angled so that they wouldn't take the brunt of the punishment across their ribcage, where an errant ball-bearing between delicate bone would mean a punctured lung, or worse. The state of the bathroom told him that they'd survived, treated themselves and - he peeked briefly into an immaculate bedroom that only showed signs of a chronic reader - managed to escape.
Keelin was right where he'd left her, staring at the fireplace with a look of mute dread, as if she expected a droid to come flying down at any moment and blast her to pieces. She jumped and let out a little yelp of shock when Quinn joined her.
"Do you know any doctors?" he asked. Her eyes clouded, concerned and confused, and it was clear that she wanted to ask - something, however, be it fear or shock, seemed to make her think twice, and she shook her head. "What about medics?" he pressed. "Anybody who would be good with..." He paused, choosing his words. "Puncture wounds."
"Umm... Avril from the base was our first aid trainer..."
"Trustworthy?"
"Yeah," she said, nodding. "She's married to Dax's brother."
"How far?"
"They live on the West End..." Keelin looked at the floor, thinking. "Maybe ten, fifteen minutes from here?"
"You know the way?" When she nodded, he crossed the floor and offered her a hand. She stared at it a moment before sliding her fingers against his. "Then let's go," he told her, pulling her to her feet. "I don't think we have much time."