Hello and welcome to our community! Is this your first visit?
Register
Results 1 to 7 of 7
  1. #1
    Fanatic Enthusiast Xenomorph's Avatar


    Join Date
    May 2007
    Location
    Orange Park, FL
    Posts
    3,950

    The Remnants : Update 4/20/11 : Edge

    Something I've only been working on for a small while, really, but it's an attempt at something altogether more surreal than my previous works. We'll see how it pans out.

    Prologue
    [spoiler:3nnreaip]The darkest corners alight with fear, the brightest flash clouded by the same. Nothing is where it should be, everything's spun around, distorted, unreal. The first time in this place is never the worst. That innocence, that confidence brought about by the ignorance of what was inside. The hubris, the ambition, all lost in time. All brought to an end, cut off by that most guttural of all feelings. The fear. It manifests itself as a shadow, a motion, a thought, a doubt. As real as anything else in this most dreary of all places, this hole of death and rot. Bodies strewn about, on the ceiling, in the walls, the crunch of bone beneath a footstep. Nothing is where it should be. Nobody should be here.

    And yet they are. The few that can come to this place for a reason. Each may claim their own, but above all, one reason reigns supreme. The fear. That most basic of impulses, that most paralyzing, is also the most enticing. No other force pushes one's limits more so than this fear. And for this above all, the few that can come to this place. This place of death and rot, this place so distorted, so unreal, yet with the shadows of death so real that they can reach out and touch a man. Reach out and kill a man.

    In this despair is a group akin to only themselves. The best at their duty- and at this point the only. In shambles their memories lay, their homes, their lives only this now. Only the fear. The fear of death, of course, but also the fear of the next day's life. The fear of failure, and yet of success again. Those on their pedestals have fallen, those whose promises led a world now a part of this macabre sculpture of body and bone. Left behind are but dust and shadows. Shadows of motion, shadows of death. From one to another, they are all of one, yet distinct in their own motions. And in this dreadful dance of serpents and darkness lies the terrified warren of remnants. The mighty brought to their knees, torn from their supremacy in a hail of tooth and claw. Ripped apart and lain asunder for whatever may remain in this barren land. A part of this landscape, of body and bone.

    And in this warren lie the few that remain. The strong, the weak, the shambles and waste of a society once known, but now to be forgotten. Their numbers are few, their lives mere survival. The only peace brought to them by violence, by terror. By fear. This is where the group of so few come into play. To kill the puppeteer of the shadows is to drive the puppets mad. And this madness is peace, for as the shadows clash and gnaw at one another, the warren is laid aside as some afterthought, some relic too fragile to be touched by the ungloved hand, the terrified within allowed a moment's respite. This group seeks the madness, for it is their duty to provide it for the rest. A group akin to only themselves, in a world of body and bone, of shadows so real they can reach out and kill a man, of puppeteers and puppets. Of fear.[/spoiler:3nnreaip]
    1 : Feint
    [spoiler:3nnreaip]Overcast, in more ways than the weather would have one believe. Darkness lie all about, in the shadows, in the eyes and forlorn faces of the terrified few. Under the cities they crawl, as vermin once did, to avoid the shadows that have taken their homes, that have taken the living from their lives. But a few stay above, watching, vigilant amidst the dour restlessness. And these few see the sky, such that it is. Saddened and heavy, the clouds moved in their solemn ways, beckoning that a brighter day will surely come. As of yet, no such prophecy has been answered.

    The world lies in pieces, cities not even vaguely resembling their glorious namesake, now overlain by the body and bone, the blackened tar and impossible stench. Rounded are even the sharpest of edges, both in world and in mind. Hills atop a schoolyard, mountains atop a skyscraper once proud. The shapes humble, and instill a reminder amongst the sentries that the shadows still remain. And in accordance to this reminder, they remain alert, for the slightest mistake in this realm of obscene destruction will lead the smallest of flames remaining alight to be extinguished without another thought, never again to be rekindled, never again to be known.

    And with this knowledge they carry on, voices hushed, breathing stilled. A glance to one another, a halfhearted smile all the warmth they receive on the surface. A soft-spoken word across the microphone almost a deafening crack amidst the shuffling silence.

    “Shaun, you alive there, man?”

    A shuffle and a click. “Fuckin-A, Rache, I'm not gonna be if you give me another heart attack.”

    A short chuckle and a joke at Shaun's expense. “That was you and your stims, asshole. Don't blame me for that shit. Gotta keep my buddy on his toes, right?”

    “Yeah, yeah. You're still an asshole, you know that, right?”

    “Of course.”

    “But in a good way, Rache. Not like Mike over there.”

    A third over the mic. “You guys talkin' about me again?”

    “Only when you're not listening, buddy.”

    “Yeah, fuck you, Shaun.”

    “Whatever, man. Why are we on frickin sentry duty, anyway?”

    Rachel, sarcastic as always, “Because the guys down below were sick of listening to your ass whine about being down there.”

    “Well, shit, what the hell am I supposed to do? It's fuckin' dark down there. Depressing's what it is.”

    “And this isn't?”

    “Too true, Rache.”

    This time Mike, as authoritative and sincere as could be, “Will you two shut the hell up? Motion trackers might read still, but that doesn't mean they're not out there. Now keep it tight, marines.”

    “Marines? God damn, man, didn't you get the memo? The marines are dead.”

    “Not all of them, Shaun. Hoo-ah.”

    And from the other two, a quiet, “Hoo-ah.”

    Silence from then on, the quiet footsteps of the group muffled amongst the newfound rain. Puddles formed here and there, in the crevices and potholes, in the lowlands and the bone. The dull thud of a sensor's sweep, the chilled breaths of the few above. A pillar of smoke, in a distance that couldn't be measured. Towards it the group went, hopes lit up as any flame, their own smoke invisibly wafting off, visible only to the shadows. Priority one, spot and avoid the shadows. Priority two, seek that which would help the few left. And this was a time when the latter took it's own course. A building stood amidst the smoke, amidst the rubble, unreal in it's defiance. Solid cement, solid steel, impregnable. A haven amidst the storm, a sense of reality in the nightmare.

    “Shaun, anything on the tracker?”

    “Nah, Mike, we're good. Holy hell, if that's an ammo cache, man...”

    “Yeah, I know. Rachel, get to work on that panel over there.”

    An almost excited, “Yessir.” Three minutes more of the silence, Rachel's blonde ponytail bouncing quietly in the wind against her once-periwinkle shirt. Then, a simple beep to light the way. “Got it. We're in the access door right over there.”

    “Good job, Rachel. Shaun, you take point. Rachel, you're following me. Watch our backs.”

    Two acknowledgments, and positions were taken. Smooth and flowing, ready as ever. The small metal door slid open, and the group slid in. From one to another, they were as one, yet distinct in their own movements. Ghosts amongst shadows. Each door along the corridor was scrutinized, each opened with the same flourish of dust and memories. The occasional item of interest kept spirits from dwindling- a notepad, a pencil, thread and a razor. A final door was particularly intriguing, however. Steel, and seemingly reinforced, pristine and unopened like a can of food. Moreover, the label affixed to the door was as enticing as if it told of caviar within the can. Armory.

    “Jackpot, guys. Rachel, you know what to do.”

    “You got it. This'll only take a minute.”

    And off to work she went, murmuring to herself and rattling away on her keyboard, all interconnected and intertwined in this world of steel and sense. At home, it seemed. So excited, so sincere in their pursuit, their fulfillment. All of the anticipation culminated in another, simple beep.

    Hopeful enthusiasm from Shaun, always admiring Rachel's work. “You in yet?”

    A smile from the prodigy, a tousle of her hair. A look of success on her face, she looked back at the two others, and with a gleeful flourish, she pressed the button that raised the large door to reveal their prize. As it opened, and Rachel heard her accomplishment ring aloud, a smile still on her face, she began to turn back to the door, but was stopped by something altogether more paralyzing. The fear.

    Her once-periwinkle shirt, dirtied by time and sweat, took on a color all the more crimson in appearance. Small at first, perhaps, but around the blackened blade the crimson grew until the periwinkle shirt was no more. She opened her mouth in horror, but nothing but a gurgle came forth. A shadow so real crouched before her- reached out to kill. And forward the shadow pushed, the crackle of bone and sliding of flesh so slow, so real. The others had no time to react. By the time even one had seen the menace, the blade of the shadow had ripped through Rachel's side, leaving a strange gap from her midriff to her hip. And out of this strangest of gaps, unwelcome in this world of steel and sense, fell a length of rope so unreal that at first glance Rachel would think of placing it back where it had once belonged. As the others reached for their weapons, Rachel was spun aside, eyes no longer filled with the fear, but now holding some horrible sorrow, some plea for help, some agonizing, impossible request to remain amongst the few who lived. And these eyes, so filled with hopelessness met with first Mike, then Shaun, even as the bullets flew, the brightest of flashes clouded by the scene. The shadow fell to horrible, crackling pieces under the assault, and fell, burning, to the floor.

    A desperate scream from Shaun, “Rachel! Oh, God, Rache!” Now only a sad half-figure lying on the floor, Rachel squirmed about in her own fluids, movements so horrifically grotesque- tendons torn, seizures taking hold in an attempt to make sense of the situation. Throwing his weapon to the ground, Shaun fell into the pool of blood at her side, and he sought solace in her eyes of despair. Searching still for that one answer, that one solution, Rachel tried to speak, but nothing came of it but some obscene rattle. She grasped at her ropes of blood and gore, hands drenched in her own blood, seeking to make right what had once been, to put herself back together. Upon failing this, she reached for Shaun with those bloody hands, and he was in tears above her, still muttering her name. Gasping for breath, she gave a final attempt to scream for help, and, if only with her pleading eyes, she gave this final request to stay with the living. This final, impossible request.

    Shaun stayed with her, broken, her blood still smeared on his face, his dirty blonde hair hanging down as if to shroud his pain. Her hand in his, he stayed over her, solemnly whispering something again and again, the tears falling altogether more real than the outside rain. Mike stood to the side, trying to make sense of what he was saying. A final repetition, louder than the rest, confirmed the suspicion. “I'm so sorry, Rachel. God dammit, I'm so fucking sorry.”[/spoiler:3nnreaip]
    2 : Edge
    [spoiler:3nnreaip]No more sky. No more rain. No more Rachel. Solemnly, Mike and Shaun had gathered what they could from the armory, taking care not to disturb the covered remains of Rachel. This world had no peace for the dead- she had to be left where she fell. The two descended down into the depths, to display their gatherings paid for with an ocean of blood. Enough to be happy for on any other day. Majti, a rather small woman of obvious Indian descent, greeted them at the entrance to the tunnel- a mere access tube with a single, decaying ladder.

    “Guys, I'm sorry about Rachel. She was damn good at her job- we couldn't afford to lose her.”

    Shaun hung on the ladder below Mike, just a foot from the grimy bottom, and released one hand to swing his gaze to Matji. His face was drawn, eyes close to hate, closer to despair. “Dammit, Matji. You didn't see her. She was really there for a minute, you know? Not just a damned shell like the rest of us. No fucking reason she should have died there.” Shaun jumped the foot to the ground, blonde hair tousling about, and passed Matji, looking down at her as he did so. “No fucking reason.” Shaun walked over to the group and asked around a bit. He found his bag being carried by Mark, a fairly large man. Shaun took the bag, and sat on some old barrel, chewing on some ancient bar of grain.

    “He's a bit beat up, Matji. Rache was like a sister to the guy. And he's right. There wasn't a reason.” Mike patted Matji on the shoulder and looked down at her. “Get a new sentry group together, we're setting up camp.”

    A quiet, saddened, “Yes, sir.” rose up from Matji as she shouldered her rifle and disappeared into the crowd of so few. Perhaps thirty souls left in this little bastion of humanity, but so few alive. Matji nudged a few people, spoke a few soft words, and had them follow her. Kristen, Joel, and Peterson. They were good enough at night-watch.

    Mike looked around a moment at the shambling souls before moving one of the crates they'd lowered down up against a wall. He swung the clamps open, and then the lid. Inside a Pulse Rifle, some clips, and a motion tracker. In the next box, some medical supplies, a few dozen stims, and a few flares. The next container was a case for a sentry gun, to be assembled. In the last was something to be hopeful for, at least. An M24D Scoped Rifle. The group's M24C gave out months ago, and it's demise left sentries relying on motion trackers and hope. Both so few in this slate-gray world. Mike picked up the rifle, felt it's weight, felt the cold steel and emotionless plastic. And then it was gone. Shaun had snatched it with a quick motion, and stood staring at it, almost confused.

    “This is what Rachel died for? Well, that's fucking great. How many rounds we got?”

    Mike stood puzzled, “Um, fifty or so. Actually, will the C's rounds work in it?” Shaun nodded. “All right, then. Tag a hundred onto that.”

    “I'm going with Matji tonight. They need someone who can use one of these.”

    “You'd better not let Peterson hear you talking like that. He'd figure you think you're better then him.”

    “I am better, you idiot. Peterson couldn't hit a bug if it was fucking asleep.”

    “Those things sleep?”

    “Funny, man. Either way, I'm going up. See you tomorrow, all right?”

    Shaun started to walk away, but Mike grabbed him roughly by the arm. Shaun shot a look of fury at him a moment, and then it softened. “You sure you're up for this, Shaun? You can just stay down here the night. Those guys can handle it.”

    Shaun looked at Mike a moment in silence, and Mike let him go. He understood it well enough. Shaun walked over to the ladder, and Matji looked back at Mike, who nodded slightly. The sentries left the putrid comforts of the underground to enjoy their vacation in hell. Mike sat on one of the cases, found some gray bar to chew on, and let his mind die. Thought prompts the worst in people, after all.

    And so the next length of time, the length of which Mike had no idea, passed in silence. The people shuffled, found some excuse for comfort, and laid to rest. A few stayed awake, reading relics of the past or maintaining what little they had. A sense of normalcy in this world of blood and bone.

    “Mister?”

    Dead thoughts struggled to revive, a mental flailing ensued for a moment.

    “...Um, mister?”

    “-what? Yes?”

    “Can you help me?”

    Somewhat perplexed at the little girl's request, Mike complied. “What do you need help with?”

    A sad figure was presented. Hanging, dangling, as it were, from a torso, an arm horridly disfigured- almost ripped clean off. Eyes dead as the slate-gray concrete. A teddy bear. A novel sentiment held onto by the last shreds of innocence the world sought to smother. “Can you fix him?”

    Mike shuffled around a moment and produced the thread paid for with a life. “Yeah. I'll get it back to you when I'm done, all right?” The girl nodded, and scampered off again to wherever she was sleeping. Mike found a needle, and went to work. As some period of time or another passed, another voice awakened the deadened mind.

    “What're you doing?”

    Mike thought he'd be used to this by now. Evidently not.

    “Hello?”

    “What? Oh, this? Yeah, Samantha brought this over for me to fix. I had the thread and the time, so why not?”

    “That's sweet of you.”

    “Guess so.”

    An examining stare from an apparent expert, “You missed a stitch, Mike.”

    “You wanna take over, Sharon?”

    Another silence, all too common. “Is that the thread you got when...”

    “Yeah, it is.”

    “Oh. You're not going to tell Samantha that, are you?”

    “No, I'm not.”

    “Oh. Good.”

    Empty as the world above, the world below moved on. Each edge dulled by time, dulled by suffering. The conversations meant nothing, the tokens of appreciation all useless. The bear was repaired, and given to the darling child. The holes, however, remained unmended.[/spoiler:3nnreaip]
    SA$_/AI%20has log[d in.
    > S&ys|BT
    > P_s word?
    > OMEGA
    >> A^e_%20_u su!e? (Y/N)
    > Y
    >> S##t m_ Rebooting. Hello, Samuel.

  2. #2
    Enthusiast Slubberdegullion's Avatar

    Join Date
    Nov 2009
    Location
    I am Twin/Homo Habilis/Homo Erectus.
    Posts
    1,429

    Re: The Remnants

    I thought the prologue was really well done in my opinion. Great choice of words, they created a very powerful and surreal feeling. I am looking forward to reading the continuation of this. Great work Xeno.
    Slubberdegullion = Pivotelite.

  3. #3
    Enthusiast OblivionFall's Avatar

    Join Date
    Dec 2008
    Location
    Earth
    Posts
    1,085

    Re: The Remnants

    Holy shit dude, that was amazing. I keep forgetting that people in this website have other talents besides Stickmen and Damonism. That was really good, it reminded me of some lyrics from Dimmu Borgir and In Dread Response.

    With your permission, I would like to put this writing onto an Image and turn it into a poster for my wall, because this is exactly the kind of stuff I like to see written in my room.

    To thee, I bid Vredesbyrd!!!

  4. #4
    Fanatic Enthusiast Xenomorph's Avatar


    Join Date
    May 2007
    Location
    Orange Park, FL
    Posts
    3,950

    Re: The Remnants

    Quote Originally Posted by Vypeira
    Holy shit dude, that was amazing. I keep forgetting that people in this website have other talents besides Stickmen and Damonism. That was really good, it reminded me of some lyrics from Dimmu Borgir and In Dread Response.

    With your permission, I would like to put this writing onto an Image and turn it into a poster for my wall, because this is exactly the kind of stuff I like to see written in my room.

    To thee, I bid Vredesbyrd!!!
    Feel absolutely free to. Thanks for the response, you guys; I'll see if I can't get more out today.
    SA$_/AI%20has log[d in.
    > S&ys|BT
    > P_s word?
    > OMEGA
    >> A^e_%20_u su!e? (Y/N)
    > Y
    >> S##t m_ Rebooting. Hello, Samuel.

  5. #5
    Veteran Enthusiast ULTRA1337piv0tz's Avatar

    Join Date
    Mar 2008
    Location
    The Netherlands
    Posts
    6,737

    Re: The Remnants

    Wow, would love to see this into a movie or something.
    Skype: ruben_vanwijk
    Steam: xendlessnl

  6. #6
    Fanatic Enthusiast Xenomorph's Avatar


    Join Date
    May 2007
    Location
    Orange Park, FL
    Posts
    3,950

    Re: The Remnants

    With all success comes a dose of defeat. Welcome to the world.

    1 : Feint
    [spoiler:1yklgpip]Overcast, in more ways than the weather would have one believe. Darkness lie all about, in the shadows, in the eyes and forlorn faces of the terrified few. Under the cities they crawl, as vermin once did, to avoid the shadows that have taken their homes, that have taken the living from their lives. But a few stay above, watching, vigilant amidst the dour restlessness. And these few see the sky, such that it is. Saddened and heavy, the clouds moved in their solemn ways, beckoning that a brighter day will surely come. As of yet, no such prophecy has been answered.

    The world lies in pieces, cities not even vaguely resembling their glorious namesake, now overlain by the body and bone, the blackened tar and impossible stench. Rounded are even the sharpest of edges, both in world and in mind. Hills atop a schoolyard, mountains atop a skyscraper once proud. The shapes humble, and instill a reminder amongst the sentries that the shadows still remain. And in accordance to this reminder, they remain alert, for the slightest mistake in this realm of obscene destruction will lead the smallest of flames remaining alight to be extinguished without another thought, never again to be rekindled, never again to be known.

    And with this knowledge they carry on, voices hushed, breathing stilled. A glance to one another, a halfhearted smile all the warmth they receive on the surface. A soft-spoken word across the microphone almost a deafening crack amidst the shuffling silence.

    “Shaun, you alive there, man?”

    A shuffle and a click. “Fuckin-A, Rache, I'm not gonna be if you give me another heart attack.”

    A short chuckle and a joke at Shaun's expense. “That was you and your stims, asshole. Don't blame me for that shit. Gotta keep my buddy on his toes, right?”

    “Yeah, yeah. You're still an asshole, you know that, right?”

    “Of course.”

    “But in a good way, Rache. Not like Mike over there.”

    A third over the mic. “You guys talkin' about me again?”

    “Only when you're not listening, buddy.”

    “Yeah, fuck you, Shaun.”

    “Whatever, man. Why are we on frickin sentry duty, anyway?”

    Rachel, sarcastic as always, “Because the guys down below were sick of listening to your ass whine about being down there.”

    “Well, shit, what the hell am I supposed to do? It's fuckin' dark down there. Depressing's what it is.”

    “And this isn't?”

    “Too true, Rache.”

    This time Mike, as authoritative and sincere as could be, “Will you two shut the hell up? Motion trackers might read still, but that doesn't mean they're not out there. Now keep it tight, marines.”

    “Marines? God damn, man, didn't you get the memo? The marines are dead.”

    “Not all of them, Shaun. Hoo-ah.”

    And from the other two, a quiet, “Hoo-ah.”

    Silence from then on, the quiet footsteps of the group muffled amongst the newfound rain. Puddles formed here and there, in the crevices and potholes, in the lowlands and the bone. The dull thud of a sensor's sweep, the chilled breaths of the few above. A pillar of smoke, in a distance that couldn't be measured. Towards it the group went, hopes lit up as any flame, their own smoke invisibly wafting off, visible only to the shadows. Priority one, spot and avoid the shadows. Priority two, seek that which would help the few left. And this was a time when the latter took it's own course. A building stood amidst the smoke, amidst the rubble, unreal in it's defiance. Solid cement, solid steel, impregnable. A haven amidst the storm, a sense of reality in the nightmare.

    “Shaun, anything on the tracker?”

    “Nah, Mike, we're good. Holy hell, if that's an ammo cache, man...”

    “Yeah, I know. Rachel, get to work on that panel over there.”

    An almost excited, “Yessir.” Three minutes more of the silence, Rachel's blonde ponytail bouncing quietly in the wind against her once-periwinkle shirt. Then, a simple beep to light the way. “Got it. We're in the access door right over there.”

    “Good job, Rachel. Shaun, you take point. Rachel, you're following me. Watch our backs.”

    Two acknowledgments, and positions were taken. Smooth and flowing, ready as ever. The small metal door slid open, and the group slid in. From one to another, they were as one, yet distinct in their own movements. Ghosts amongst shadows. Each door along the corridor was scrutinized, each opened with the same flourish of dust and memories. The occasional item of interest kept spirits from dwindling- a notepad, a pencil, thread and a razor. A final door was particularly intriguing, however. Steel, and seemingly reinforced, pristine and unopened like a can of food. Moreover, the label affixed to the door was as enticing as if it told of caviar within the can. Armory.

    “Jackpot, guys. Rachel, you know what to do.”

    “You got it. This'll only take a minute.”

    And off to work she went, murmuring to herself and rattling away on her keyboard, all interconnected and intertwined in this world of steel and sense. At home, it seemed. So excited, so sincere in their pursuit, their fulfillment. All of the anticipation culminated in another, simple beep.

    Hopeful enthusiasm from Shaun, always admiring Rachel's work. “You in, yet?”

    A smile from the prodigy, a tousle of her hair. A look of success on her face, she looked back at the two others, and with a gleeful flourish, she pressed the button that raised the large door to reveal their prize. As it opened, and Rachel heard her accomplishment ring aloud, a smile still on her face, she began to turn back to the door, but was stopped by something altogether more paralyzing. The fear.

    Her once-periwinkle shirt, dirtied by time and sweat, took on a color all the more crimson in appearance. Small at first, perhaps, but around the blackened blade the crimson grew until the periwinkle shirt was no more. She opened her mouth in horror, but nothing but a gurgle came forth. A shadow so real crouched before her- reached out to kill. And forward the shadow pushed, the crackle of bone and sliding of flesh so slow, so real. The others had no time to react. By the time even one had seen the menace, the blade of the shadow had ripped through Rachel's side, leaving a strange gap from her midriff to her hip. And out of this strangest of gaps, unwelcome in this world of steel and sense, fell a length of rope so unreal that at first glance Rachel would think of placing it back where it had once belonged. As the others reached for their weapons, Rachel was spun aside, eyes no longer filled with the fear, but now holding some horrible sorrow, some plea for help, some agonizing, impossible request to remain amongst the few who lived. And these eyes, so filled with hopelessness met with first Mike, then Shaun, even as the bullets flew, the brightest of flashes clouded by the scene. The shadow fell to horrible, crackling pieces under the assault, and fell, burning, to the floor.

    A desperate scream from Shaun, “Rachel! Oh, God, Rache!” Now only a sad half-figure lying on the floor, Rachel squirmed about in her own fluids, movements so horrifically grotesque- tendons torn, seizures taking hold in an attempt to make sense of the situation. Throwing his weapon to the ground, Shaun fell into the pool of blood at her side, and he sought solace in her eyes of despair. Searching still for that one answer, that one solution, Rachel tried to speak, but nothing came of it but some obscene rattle. She grasped at her ropes of blood and gore, hands drenched in her own blood, seeking to make right what had once been, to put herself back together. Upon failing this, she reached for Shaun with those bloody hands, and he was in tears above her, still muttering her name. Gasping for breath, she gave a final attempt to scream for help, and, if only with her pleading eyes, she gave this final request to stay with the living. This final, impossible request.

    Shaun stayed with her, broken, her blood still smeared on his face, his dirty blonde hair hanging down as if to shroud his pain. Her hand in his, he stayed over her, solemnly whispering something again and again, the tears falling altogether more real than the outside rain. Mike stood to the side, trying to make sense of what he was saying. A final repetition, louder than the rest, confirmed the suspicion. “I'm so sorry, Rachel. God dammit, I'm so fucking sorry.”[/spoiler:1yklgpip]
    SA$_/AI%20has log[d in.
    > S&ys|BT
    > P_s word?
    > OMEGA
    >> A^e_%20_u su!e? (Y/N)
    > Y
    >> S##t m_ Rebooting. Hello, Samuel.

  7. #7
    Fanatic Enthusiast Xenomorph's Avatar


    Join Date
    May 2007
    Location
    Orange Park, FL
    Posts
    3,950

    Re: The Remnants : Update 8/18/10 : Feint

    Been a while, hasn't it?

    2 : Edge
    [spoiler:22uwkj7d]No more sky. No more rain. No more Rachel. Solemnly, Mike and Shaun had gathered what they could from the armory, taking care not to disturb the covered remains of Rachel. This world had no peace for the dead- she had to be left where she fell. The two descended down into the depths, to display their gatherings paid for with an ocean of blood. Enough to be happy for on any other day. Majti, a rather small woman of obvious Indian descent, greeted them at the entrance to the tunnel- a mere access tube with a single, decaying ladder.

    “Guys, I'm sorry about Rachel. She was damn good at her job- we couldn't afford to lose her.”

    Shaun hung on the ladder below Mike, just a foot from the grimy bottom, and released one hand to swing his gaze to Matji. His face was drawn, eyes close to hate, closer to despair. “Dammit, Matji. You didn't see her. She was really there for a minute, you know? Not just a damned shell like the rest of us. No fucking reason she should have died there.” Shaun jumped the foot to the ground, blonde hair tousling about, and passed Matji, looking down at her as he did so. “No fucking reason.” Shaun walked over to the group and asked around a bit. He found his bag being carried by Mark, a fairly large man. Shaun took the bag, and sat on some old barrel, chewing on some ancient bar of grain.

    “He's a bit beat up, Matji. Rache was like a sister to the guy. And he's right. There wasn't a reason.” Mike patted Matji on the shoulder and looked down at her. “Get a new sentry group together, we're setting up camp.”

    A quiet, saddened, “Yes, sir.” rose up from Matji as she shouldered her rifle and disappeared into the crowd of so few. Perhaps thirty souls left in this little bastion of humanity, but so few alive. Matji nudged a few people, spoke a few soft words, and had them follow her. Kristen, Joel, and Peterson. They were good enough at night-watch.

    Mike looked around a moment at the shambling souls before moving one of the crates they'd lowered down up against a wall. He swung the clamps open, and then the lid. Inside a Pulse Rifle, some clips, and a motion tracker. In the next box, some medical supplies, a few dozen stims, and a few flares. The next container was a case for a sentry gun, to be assembled. In the last was something to be hopeful for, at least. An M24D Scoped Rifle. The group's M24C gave out months ago, and it's demise left sentries relying on motion trackers and hope. Both so few in this slate-gray world. Mike picked up the rifle, felt it's weight, felt the cold steel and emotionless plastic. And then it was gone. Shaun had snatched it with a quick motion, and stood staring at it, almost confused.

    “This is what Rachel died for? Well, that's fucking great. How many rounds we got?”

    Mike stood puzzled, “Um, fifty or so. Actually, will the C's rounds work in it?” Shaun nodded. “All right, then. Tag a hundred onto that.”

    “I'm going with Matji tonight. They need someone who can use one of these.”

    “You'd better not let Peterson hear you talking like that. He'd figure you think you're better then him.”

    “I am better, you idiot. Peterson couldn't hit a bug if it was fucking asleep.”

    “Those things sleep?”

    “Funny, man. Either way, I'm going up. See you tomorrow, all right?”

    Shaun started to walk away, but Mike grabbed him roughly by the arm. Shaun shot a look of fury at him a moment, and then it softened. “You sure you're up for this, Shaun? You can just stay down here the night. Those guys can handle it.”

    Shaun looked at Mike a moment in silence, and Mike let him go. He understood it well enough. Shaun walked over to the ladder, and Matji looked back at Mike, who nodded slightly. The sentries left the putrid comforts of the underground to enjoy their vacation in hell. Mike sat on one of the cases, found some gray bar to chew on, and let his mind die. Thought prompts the worst in people, after all.

    And so the next length of time, the length of which Mike had no idea, passed in silence. The people shuffled, found some excuse for comfort, and laid to rest. A few stayed awake, reading relics of the past or maintaining what little they had. A sense of normalcy in this world of blood and bone.

    “Mister?”

    Dead thoughts struggled to revive, a mental flailing ensued for a moment.

    “...Um, mister?”

    “-what? Yes?”

    “Can you help me?”

    Somewhat perplexed at the little girl's request, Mike complied. “What do you need help with?”

    A sad figure was presented. Hanging, dangling, as it were, from a torso, an arm horridly disfigured- almost ripped clean off. Eyes dead as the slate-gray concrete. A teddy bear. A novel sentiment held onto by the last shreds of innocence the world sought to smother. “Can you fix him?”

    Mike shuffled around a moment and produced the thread paid for with a life. “Yeah. I'll get it back to you when I'm done, all right?” The girl nodded, and scampered off again to wherever she was sleeping. Mike found a needle, and went to work. As some period of time or another passed, another voice awakened the deadened mind.

    “What're you doing?”

    Mike thought he'd be used to this by now. Evidently not.

    “Hello?”

    “What? Oh, this? Yeah, Samantha brought this over for me to fix. I had the thread and the time, so why not?”

    “That's sweet of you.”

    “Guess so.”

    An examining stare from an apparent expert, “You missed a stitch, Mike.”

    “You wanna take over, Sharon?”

    Another silence, all too common. “Is that the thread you got when...”

    “Yeah, it is.”

    “Oh. You're not going to tell Samantha that, are you?”

    “No, I'm not.”

    “Oh. Good.”

    Empty as the world above, the world below moved on. Each edge dulled by time, dulled by suffering. The conversations meant nothing, the tokens of appreciation all useless. The bear was repaired, and given to the darling child. The holes, however, remained unmended.[/spoiler:22uwkj7d]
    SA$_/AI%20has log[d in.
    > S&ys|BT
    > P_s word?
    > OMEGA
    >> A^e_%20_u su!e? (Y/N)
    > Y
    >> S##t m_ Rebooting. Hello, Samuel.


 

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •