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31_days2009-11-03 05:33 am
bane-6.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2009-11-03 05:33 am
[Nov 3] [Original] Without Armor
Title: Without Armor
Day/Theme: three. we are but weaklings pretending to be tough
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: The Biker, The Soldier
Rating: ”PG
The Biker didn’t lock his door. He had never carried the key. It was probably still in the drawer with the room’s lease. He wasn’t even sure the lock worked. So, when he heard the screaming and the pounding, he knew that nothing would stop whoever it was from getting in. He had a knife, an old switchblade, and he palmed it, just in case.
“Somebody help me!” It was a hysterical scream. It could’ve been anyone. “For God’s sake, somebody!”
Sure enough, the Biker’s door flew open and there, in nothing but pajama bottoms and a cold sweat, was the ex-soldier from upstairs. The Biker didn’t remember his name, hadn’t bothered to learn it, and therefore had nothing to say as the frantic man slammed the door shut and leaned on it.
“I’m sorry!” he wheezed. “I sorry. I can’t, she isn’t, she’s coming!”
“OK,” said the Biker, not in the least reassured, but keeping his tough face on.
The doorknob rattled and the soldier leaped away from door like it had burned him. He tackled the Biker over backwards out of his wheelchair and only the fact that he was babbling apologies and trying to drag him to safety kept the Biker from stabbing him. Soldierboy dragged him to the back wall and huddled there with him. The man was shaking like a leaf, halfway clutching him like a teddy bear, and halfway hiding behind him.
Was it some sort of combat flashback, some post-traumatic thing? The doorknob rattled again, more insistently this time, and water seeped in under the door. The Biker felt the soldier gasp into his back, but didn’t hear him make another sound. Whatever had chased him out of his own bed and down the halls had followed him here. The door shook again, as if whoever was on the other side had never used a doorknob before.
That thought sent a chill up the Biker’s spine. The shaking kept going until finally the right twist and the right pressure opened the door. It opened gently, creaking just as an ominously opening door should. And standing there was the She.
Someone watching from a distance, from safety, would’ve thought she was beautiful. She was short and willowy, long wavy black hair that reached the floor, perfectly proportioned, covered in smooth dark skin. She was draped in something that was plastered to her body and so wet that it was transparent. The color only showed in the folds. She should’ve been beautiful, but her eyes gave her away. They were flat and black and old, like a thousand year old snake asleep under stones that had been awakened and found herself very hungry.
And what were they that could stop her? A crippled lone wolf with no friends to stand beside, not even his own legs to stand on, and a soldier too blinded with blood to fight anymore, both of them broken and mortal and no match for this thing. The knife wouldn’t stop her, no combat training could tell them how to kill her, no bad reputation would faze her. They were doomed and helpless, flesh and blood in the face of ancient power. She smiled and stepped over the threshold.
(to be continued)
Day/Theme: three. we are but weaklings pretending to be tough
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: The Biker, The Soldier
Rating: ”PG
The Biker didn’t lock his door. He had never carried the key. It was probably still in the drawer with the room’s lease. He wasn’t even sure the lock worked. So, when he heard the screaming and the pounding, he knew that nothing would stop whoever it was from getting in. He had a knife, an old switchblade, and he palmed it, just in case.
“Somebody help me!” It was a hysterical scream. It could’ve been anyone. “For God’s sake, somebody!”
Sure enough, the Biker’s door flew open and there, in nothing but pajama bottoms and a cold sweat, was the ex-soldier from upstairs. The Biker didn’t remember his name, hadn’t bothered to learn it, and therefore had nothing to say as the frantic man slammed the door shut and leaned on it.
“I’m sorry!” he wheezed. “I sorry. I can’t, she isn’t, she’s coming!”
“OK,” said the Biker, not in the least reassured, but keeping his tough face on.
The doorknob rattled and the soldier leaped away from door like it had burned him. He tackled the Biker over backwards out of his wheelchair and only the fact that he was babbling apologies and trying to drag him to safety kept the Biker from stabbing him. Soldierboy dragged him to the back wall and huddled there with him. The man was shaking like a leaf, halfway clutching him like a teddy bear, and halfway hiding behind him.
Was it some sort of combat flashback, some post-traumatic thing? The doorknob rattled again, more insistently this time, and water seeped in under the door. The Biker felt the soldier gasp into his back, but didn’t hear him make another sound. Whatever had chased him out of his own bed and down the halls had followed him here. The door shook again, as if whoever was on the other side had never used a doorknob before.
That thought sent a chill up the Biker’s spine. The shaking kept going until finally the right twist and the right pressure opened the door. It opened gently, creaking just as an ominously opening door should. And standing there was the She.
Someone watching from a distance, from safety, would’ve thought she was beautiful. She was short and willowy, long wavy black hair that reached the floor, perfectly proportioned, covered in smooth dark skin. She was draped in something that was plastered to her body and so wet that it was transparent. The color only showed in the folds. She should’ve been beautiful, but her eyes gave her away. They were flat and black and old, like a thousand year old snake asleep under stones that had been awakened and found herself very hungry.
And what were they that could stop her? A crippled lone wolf with no friends to stand beside, not even his own legs to stand on, and a soldier too blinded with blood to fight anymore, both of them broken and mortal and no match for this thing. The knife wouldn’t stop her, no combat training could tell them how to kill her, no bad reputation would faze her. They were doomed and helpless, flesh and blood in the face of ancient power. She smiled and stepped over the threshold.
(to be continued)