TW: Suicidal thoughts, idealization of suicide, violence, blood.
Something there. Pouncing, much larger than the spiders. Too fast to avoid, too large to truly dodge. Where would he go anyway, between this and those skittering arachnids? And okay, sure. Let’s add teeth, claws, and FIRE, why not?
His heartrate increased substantially, shoved more blood through his system and fired up his adrenaline. The subtle remnants of a defensive snarl there and then gone, pupils expanding. Motion and any decision making held in check by old training that was still online. Had been since the end of the war, would likely never truly leave him.
He could smell it as much as he could feel it. Heating his skin, forcing his eyes to squint against it. Breath there, too, wafting against his own. No struggle at all, not even a flinch, gaze averted away from the thing. A reaction, not a response.
He knew the difference between a predator that wanted to devour him as opposed to one that wanted to subdue him. Tough lessons learned on his own between life as a soldier and life as a nomad. Being alone increased the threat of injury and death, made it harder to stay ontop of resources. All of these things kicked up his paranoia, forced him to remain in a state of awareness, constantly alert. Except when he was distracted. Except when the drink he’d come here for had turned into some twisted version of a horror story.
Maybe he’d get eaten. Or stabbed.
Maybe he wouldn’t.
Did his death count as being ‘deserved’ if he wasn’t the one who caused it?
And then a face. One he recognized, made eyebrows lifted briefly when he caught features in his peripheral vision. A queen, once. But, that was the world, wasn’t it? You were royalty, you were powerful. And then you weren’t.
He saw the way her digits coiled around her whip. Held it white-knuckled. Heard it in her voice, the strain of anger… or maybe something else. Michael didn’t know, he wasn’t a god damn mind reader. He didn’t care, either, either get it done or let him up.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
“I came here for the whiskey.” A gravely tone drenched in snark. Haunted by a past he’d never tell anyone about. Not even himself. “Didn't you? Or were you waiting for me?” Still no movement from him. The uptick of his beating heart remained, breaths slightly faster. Would have been more frantic had he led a more civilian lifestyle.
MICHAEL
Kid, get off the ground. Spit your blood and bare your teeth.
His heartrate increased substantially, shoved more blood through his system and fired up his adrenaline. The subtle remnants of a defensive snarl there and then gone, pupils expanding. Motion and any decision making held in check by old training that was still online. Had been since the end of the war, would likely never truly leave him.
He could smell it as much as he could feel it. Heating his skin, forcing his eyes to squint against it. Breath there, too, wafting against his own. No struggle at all, not even a flinch, gaze averted away from the thing. A reaction, not a response.
He knew the difference between a predator that wanted to devour him as opposed to one that wanted to subdue him. Tough lessons learned on his own between life as a soldier and life as a nomad. Being alone increased the threat of injury and death, made it harder to stay ontop of resources. All of these things kicked up his paranoia, forced him to remain in a state of awareness, constantly alert. Except when he was distracted. Except when the drink he’d come here for had turned into some twisted version of a horror story.
Maybe he’d get eaten. Or stabbed.
Maybe he wouldn’t.
Did his death count as being ‘deserved’ if he wasn’t the one who caused it?
And then a face. One he recognized, made eyebrows lifted briefly when he caught features in his peripheral vision. A queen, once. But, that was the world, wasn’t it? You were royalty, you were powerful. And then you weren’t.
He saw the way her digits coiled around her whip. Held it white-knuckled. Heard it in her voice, the strain of anger… or maybe something else. Michael didn’t know, he wasn’t a god damn mind reader. He didn’t care, either, either get it done or let him up.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
“I came here for the whiskey.” A gravely tone drenched in snark. Haunted by a past he’d never tell anyone about. Not even himself. “Didn't you? Or were you waiting for me?” Still no movement from him. The uptick of his beating heart remained, breaths slightly faster. Would have been more frantic had he led a more civilian lifestyle.
Go down fighting. Go down savage.
