03-23-2023, 11:59 PM
’Things changed,’ Marcus’ words. Fucking right. Not just talking about Butryka. It wasn't Ryker's first time. On the other side of the bars, doors, fence and guns. He’d put shit-stains for men in here. Dragged their asses out of vans and tossed them to the brutality of guards and walked back out again.
Never thought he’d be a guest himself. Talk about things changing.
And he wasn’t even sure how long he’d been inside. The last month, maybe more, was a goddamn blur. He’d be bitter over the lapse of memory but he didn’t want to fucking remember. The last clear memory was waking up less than compromised and shitting bloody toilet paper for two days. Not the kind of thing you wanted to remember. If he was pissed over being bagged, tagged and locked up in America without so much as a goddamn file with his name inside, then he sure as shit was pissed about being tossed in prison in his own motherfucking motherland. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. God fucking dammit.
So, the grumble to himself was more than justified, but not exactly helpful. His stare was flat. Yet he was used to listening to seniors and politicians and asshat commanders who thought they knew best. Could drone them out just as easily. After the tangent faded a little, he focused on Marcus again. The man’s channeling was steady and probing. Boring. If there was something different about Butryka it was dead fucking lost on Ryker. They could paint the walls black and pipe Agent Orange through the ventilation and he’d not notice. Or more likely, not give a rat’s ass.
The guard lingered outside. Shifting his stance nervously. The grip on his rifle tightened. It was a close-quarters weapon. Stock collapsable. Lightweight, rail operated. Standard issue for this sort of thing. Ryker rolled his eyes. “Don’t put your fucking finger anywhere near that trigger unless you intend to pull it,” he said while Marcus worked. The guard’s eyes tightened like he thought about aiming it on Ryker, but the ZARS agent simply went back to picking at his nails. Probably pissed off the guy, but that was the point.
When he looked up again, Marcus seemed to be standing in a shadow. Like one of the lights went out. Except, as Ryker studied the ceiling, nothing had changed. Then he saw it out the corner of his eye. The darkness rolled like smoke a shade darker than the surroundings. He moved to his own two feet then, frowning. Marcus’ power pulled heavy. Nothing like when the Ijiraq sucked them all dry, but the sudden appreciation of Marcus’ strength in the power couldn’t be ignored. Particularly compared to his own.
The longer he watched, the darker the mass bloomed around Marcus head. Until the Consul fell unnaturally still. The flows of his channeling settled to nothingness. Then the man’s mouth parted and the ominous fog began to pour itself into the gaping maw between his teeth. Ryker backed slowly away from the other man lest the poisonous fume creep toward him next.
Suddenly, the power surged and a flame spun itself into being. The smoke retracted from Marcus’ tender throat. A nasty ass vomiting. It balled itself up and Ryker was glad to be against the wall at that point. The hell did you defend yourself against evil fog?
Luckily, it eyed its next target and flew toward the guard swifter than it first appeared.
It gripped the man by the throat, and he went running away. His scream of terror echoed through the basement halls, chilling even Ryker’s heart.
Then it stopped. Ryker imagined why.
He looked back to Marcus. The man was bent over. Compromised. Unsettled. Not that Ryker would feel much different in that moment, but he knew if there was ever an opportunity to strike his captor, it was then.
But the power was blocked to him. Even if he could slice his skin on jagged metal and bloom the pain required, Oriena's shield was still in place. And Marcus was twice as strong as him. Maybe close to the Ascendancy himself.
He grit his teeth, knowing this wasn’t the moment.
Ryker crept toward the door. Far down the hall, the lights flickered. The flashes illuminated the shape of a man on his knees. Rifle fallen limp. He clawed at his throat like he might pull out the stuffing from the outside.
Then the lights went out.
Ryker grit his teeth, goddammit, and ran after the guard. The shadow was occupied, eating the man from the inside out. Fucking gross. The short assault rifle was plucked from the floor by Ryker's expert fingers. He threw the strap over his own shoulder, swung it around and rounded the guard from behind in less than three seconds. The guard’s neck snapped under his palms and he crumpled quite normally. Probably pissed off the fog, but at least it was absent a host.
Focused and intent, Ryker stocked the rifle to his shoulder like bullets might actually do something against a monster made of shadow and backed off. If he didn’t have the Power, at least he had a weapon.
“The fuck do you kill a shadow?” he asked, but he didn’t expect an answer.
Never thought he’d be a guest himself. Talk about things changing.
And he wasn’t even sure how long he’d been inside. The last month, maybe more, was a goddamn blur. He’d be bitter over the lapse of memory but he didn’t want to fucking remember. The last clear memory was waking up less than compromised and shitting bloody toilet paper for two days. Not the kind of thing you wanted to remember. If he was pissed over being bagged, tagged and locked up in America without so much as a goddamn file with his name inside, then he sure as shit was pissed about being tossed in prison in his own motherfucking motherland. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. God fucking dammit.
So, the grumble to himself was more than justified, but not exactly helpful. His stare was flat. Yet he was used to listening to seniors and politicians and asshat commanders who thought they knew best. Could drone them out just as easily. After the tangent faded a little, he focused on Marcus again. The man’s channeling was steady and probing. Boring. If there was something different about Butryka it was dead fucking lost on Ryker. They could paint the walls black and pipe Agent Orange through the ventilation and he’d not notice. Or more likely, not give a rat’s ass.
The guard lingered outside. Shifting his stance nervously. The grip on his rifle tightened. It was a close-quarters weapon. Stock collapsable. Lightweight, rail operated. Standard issue for this sort of thing. Ryker rolled his eyes. “Don’t put your fucking finger anywhere near that trigger unless you intend to pull it,” he said while Marcus worked. The guard’s eyes tightened like he thought about aiming it on Ryker, but the ZARS agent simply went back to picking at his nails. Probably pissed off the guy, but that was the point.
When he looked up again, Marcus seemed to be standing in a shadow. Like one of the lights went out. Except, as Ryker studied the ceiling, nothing had changed. Then he saw it out the corner of his eye. The darkness rolled like smoke a shade darker than the surroundings. He moved to his own two feet then, frowning. Marcus’ power pulled heavy. Nothing like when the Ijiraq sucked them all dry, but the sudden appreciation of Marcus’ strength in the power couldn’t be ignored. Particularly compared to his own.
The longer he watched, the darker the mass bloomed around Marcus head. Until the Consul fell unnaturally still. The flows of his channeling settled to nothingness. Then the man’s mouth parted and the ominous fog began to pour itself into the gaping maw between his teeth. Ryker backed slowly away from the other man lest the poisonous fume creep toward him next.
Suddenly, the power surged and a flame spun itself into being. The smoke retracted from Marcus’ tender throat. A nasty ass vomiting. It balled itself up and Ryker was glad to be against the wall at that point. The hell did you defend yourself against evil fog?
Luckily, it eyed its next target and flew toward the guard swifter than it first appeared.
It gripped the man by the throat, and he went running away. His scream of terror echoed through the basement halls, chilling even Ryker’s heart.
Then it stopped. Ryker imagined why.
He looked back to Marcus. The man was bent over. Compromised. Unsettled. Not that Ryker would feel much different in that moment, but he knew if there was ever an opportunity to strike his captor, it was then.
But the power was blocked to him. Even if he could slice his skin on jagged metal and bloom the pain required, Oriena's shield was still in place. And Marcus was twice as strong as him. Maybe close to the Ascendancy himself.
He grit his teeth, knowing this wasn’t the moment.
Ryker crept toward the door. Far down the hall, the lights flickered. The flashes illuminated the shape of a man on his knees. Rifle fallen limp. He clawed at his throat like he might pull out the stuffing from the outside.
Then the lights went out.
Ryker grit his teeth, goddammit, and ran after the guard. The shadow was occupied, eating the man from the inside out. Fucking gross. The short assault rifle was plucked from the floor by Ryker's expert fingers. He threw the strap over his own shoulder, swung it around and rounded the guard from behind in less than three seconds. The guard’s neck snapped under his palms and he crumpled quite normally. Probably pissed off the fog, but at least it was absent a host.
Focused and intent, Ryker stocked the rifle to his shoulder like bullets might actually do something against a monster made of shadow and backed off. If he didn’t have the Power, at least he had a weapon.
“The fuck do you kill a shadow?” he asked, but he didn’t expect an answer.