The kidnappers walked her to the middle of the circle before shoving her to her knees, like a slave stumbling onto Colosseum sands. She'd be pissed at the insult to her reputation if she weren't so busy tallying odds and searching for her roommates.
Who are outside the circle, seated against a drum barrel Wait, no, not seated but tied to it, their hands ziptied in front so there's no room between their backs and the rusty metal. That's--she doesn't know what to make of that. She doesn't have time to wonder what to make of that, all her focus locking onto their faces in the dim lantern light.
Neph looks to Hannibal first, past the blood crusting his nose, mouth, and spattered liberally down the front of his shirt. All that red sets off an alarm in her head, but it's background noise compared to the howling rage in his eyes. She's never been able to parse him when he's like this, can't tell if he's furious they've been kidnapped, furious they've been injured, furious they've caught her as well or furious at her for getting caught. Neph meets his eyes and tries to beam competent steadiness over to him, to tell him she's got the outlines of a plan without projecting it for everybody else to see.
I got this she tells him as Knife-bat shoves at her shoulder, forcing her to drop her head and her gaze. We're getting outta here, no matter what it takes.
That promise could be complicated by Will, whose leg is soaked red from the knee down. Neph can't read him any better than she can Hannibal, not past his lightheaded slump. She lifts her chin enough to catch his eye, to really look at him, because it's Will she's about to sacrifice.
Hannibal will forgive her what comes next. At least, Neph hopes he will. But Will...Will has no reason to accept the necessity of it, and every reason to run screaming. He might take Hannibal with him when he does. She can't be sure, so she stares at him and she thinks I'm sorry, I'm sorry but I'm going to do it anyway, I have to, with the resignation of a kid who's played this game before.
A pair of legs block her eyeline, and Knife-bat takes a fistful of her hair and yanks, rocking her back and forcing her to look up at a third man.
He isn't the tallest or heaviest guy in the room. He's all around average, appearance-wise, and Neph's not familiar enough with specops or military assholes to guess at his background aside from his regulation haircut. Nevertheless she knows instantly that she's staring at the ringleader. There's an analytic coolness to his gaze that reminds her of Hannibal, makes her think he's only running with the rest of these chucklefucks because they further his goals somehow.
The grip on her hair loosens as he squats down to her eyelevel, hands hanging over his knees. They watch each other for a moment, him still and uncaring, Neph hunched over her aching ribs and squinting through a slightly swollen eye. She's kept her injuries from doing more than nibbling at Pewter, so while the bleeding's stopped and she can breathe just fine, there's still a monster bruise winging out beneath her eye and the burning itch of split skin over her ear. She must seem small, beaten, scared.
Good.
"It's amazing how human they can look," guy-in-charge says, fascination glittering in his voice. He couldn't be more obviously talking to everyone but her. "That's half the danger." Then his tone shifts and he reaches out and grabs her chin, tilting her face this way and that as if checking for an obvious tell. "Do you human-looking muties band together on purpose? Are even you disgusted by the physical mutations?"
Neph sways in a flood of revulsion at this man and his everything, his beliefs and his friends and his hands. It's so intense she doesn't realize she's meant to answer until the expectant silence drags on.
Fuck it, she thinks, and says with perfect honesty, "I'm not a mutant."
Every man - and the one woman over in the corner, absently shuffling a deck of cards - laughs. "That's what they all say!" someone shouts. Their boss just shrugs and releases her chin.
"Mutant, sympathizer, they burn the same." he says, eyes gleaming with fanatical fervor despite his studied boredom.
Neph's next breath catches in her throat, her gaze darting over his shoulder to Hannibal and Will and the barrel they're propped against. There's a whole stack of similar drums behind them, maybe a dozen piled up in a rough pyramid. What's inside? The man turns his head slightly, far enough to track her eyeline, and smirks at her.
Before his mouth finishes twitching into place, the following happen:
Neph burns Tin and Pewter, the cold altoid burn of Tin waking all her nerves and muscles, the forgefire of Pewter jacking them all to two, three, four times their normal capacity. The ziptie around her wrists snaps like a cheap hairband, and the knife up her right sleeve slips into her palm. She reaches back with her left, grabs Knife-bat's bootknife, and snatches it up with pickpocket surety. Neph twists at the waist, scything her arms around. Her righthand knife plunges into Knife-bat's iliac artery (thank you, Hannibal, for flashcards and textbook illustrations) while the left cuts across the ringleader's throat.
Even with Pewter backing her, his reflexes are sharp enough that he leans away, pulling out of her reach. But Neph's range is not and never has been limited just to her arms. The knife leaves her hand, severs skin and tendons and both jugulars, before Iron Pulls it back to her palm.
A howl bursts from Knife-bat just as his boss topples backward, one hand flying up to his spurting neck. A jet of blood catches Neph across the shoulder and cheek. It scorches like cooking oil, searing her skin, but she's still moving, spinning from her knees to her feet. Her stolen knife flies from her hand again, flipping into her other kidnapper's eye. That one drops silently as Neph revolves, momentum tearing her ceramic knife from Knife-bat's leg. He goes down screaming, blood spilling between his hands. How many heartbeats before it all pumps from that severed artery? Hannibal would know.
In the hovering split second while everyone else processes whatthefuck just happened and reaches for their weapons, Neph Pulls the metal knife from the dead man's eye socket and flings it across the room, where it sinks into the hairsbreadth between Hannibal's bound ankles, severing the ziptie in the process.
"MUTIE BITCH!" one of the other men screams, and then Neph's entire world splits into slivers, carved out by bullet ley-lines. She twists, a half-leap to the side that, backed by Steel and Iron, curves them impossibly around her body and into the stake of crates to her right. Someone who'd been sitting there, raising their own gun, goes down with a gurgling shriek.
Heart hammering, shoulders burning with the effort of redirecting speeding-bullet momentum, Neph launches herself off the ground and toward the depot's rafters. The corrugated metal roof overhead is as wide and solid as the earth, enough to belay herself onto a wide wooden beam. Shots from below send splinters exploding through the air as she runs along its length, hopefully leading them away, away from the boys and the barrels.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-06-15 03:52 am (UTC)Who are outside the circle, seated against a drum barrel Wait, no, not seated but tied to it, their hands ziptied in front so there's no room between their backs and the rusty metal. That's--she doesn't know what to make of that. She doesn't have time to wonder what to make of that, all her focus locking onto their faces in the dim lantern light.
Neph looks to Hannibal first, past the blood crusting his nose, mouth, and spattered liberally down the front of his shirt. All that red sets off an alarm in her head, but it's background noise compared to the howling rage in his eyes. She's never been able to parse him when he's like this, can't tell if he's furious they've been kidnapped, furious they've been injured, furious they've caught her as well or furious at her for getting caught. Neph meets his eyes and tries to beam competent steadiness over to him, to tell him she's got the outlines of a plan without projecting it for everybody else to see.
I got this she tells him as Knife-bat shoves at her shoulder, forcing her to drop her head and her gaze. We're getting outta here, no matter what it takes.
That promise could be complicated by Will, whose leg is soaked red from the knee down. Neph can't read him any better than she can Hannibal, not past his lightheaded slump. She lifts her chin enough to catch his eye, to really look at him, because it's Will she's about to sacrifice.
Hannibal will forgive her what comes next. At least, Neph hopes he will. But Will...Will has no reason to accept the necessity of it, and every reason to run screaming. He might take Hannibal with him when he does. She can't be sure, so she stares at him and she thinks I'm sorry, I'm sorry but I'm going to do it anyway, I have to, with the resignation of a kid who's played this game before.
A pair of legs block her eyeline, and Knife-bat takes a fistful of her hair and yanks, rocking her back and forcing her to look up at a third man.
He isn't the tallest or heaviest guy in the room. He's all around average, appearance-wise, and Neph's not familiar enough with specops or military assholes to guess at his background aside from his regulation haircut. Nevertheless she knows instantly that she's staring at the ringleader. There's an analytic coolness to his gaze that reminds her of Hannibal, makes her think he's only running with the rest of these chucklefucks because they further his goals somehow.
The grip on her hair loosens as he squats down to her eyelevel, hands hanging over his knees. They watch each other for a moment, him still and uncaring, Neph hunched over her aching ribs and squinting through a slightly swollen eye. She's kept her injuries from doing more than nibbling at Pewter, so while the bleeding's stopped and she can breathe just fine, there's still a monster bruise winging out beneath her eye and the burning itch of split skin over her ear. She must seem small, beaten, scared.
Good.
"It's amazing how human they can look," guy-in-charge says, fascination glittering in his voice. He couldn't be more obviously talking to everyone but her. "That's half the danger." Then his tone shifts and he reaches out and grabs her chin, tilting her face this way and that as if checking for an obvious tell. "Do you human-looking muties band together on purpose? Are even you disgusted by the physical mutations?"
Neph sways in a flood of revulsion at this man and his everything, his beliefs and his friends and his hands. It's so intense she doesn't realize she's meant to answer until the expectant silence drags on.
Fuck it, she thinks, and says with perfect honesty, "I'm not a mutant."
Every man - and the one woman over in the corner, absently shuffling a deck of cards - laughs. "That's what they all say!" someone shouts. Their boss just shrugs and releases her chin.
"Mutant, sympathizer, they burn the same." he says, eyes gleaming with fanatical fervor despite his studied boredom.
Neph's next breath catches in her throat, her gaze darting over his shoulder to Hannibal and Will and the barrel they're propped against. There's a whole stack of similar drums behind them, maybe a dozen piled up in a rough pyramid. What's inside? The man turns his head slightly, far enough to track her eyeline, and smirks at her.
Before his mouth finishes twitching into place, the following happen:
Neph burns Tin and Pewter, the cold altoid burn of Tin waking all her nerves and muscles, the forgefire of Pewter jacking them all to two, three, four times their normal capacity. The ziptie around her wrists snaps like a cheap hairband, and the knife up her right sleeve slips into her palm. She reaches back with her left, grabs Knife-bat's bootknife, and snatches it up with pickpocket surety. Neph twists at the waist, scything her arms around. Her righthand knife plunges into Knife-bat's iliac artery (thank you, Hannibal, for flashcards and textbook illustrations) while the left cuts across the ringleader's throat.
Even with Pewter backing her, his reflexes are sharp enough that he leans away, pulling out of her reach. But Neph's range is not and never has been limited just to her arms. The knife leaves her hand, severs skin and tendons and both jugulars, before Iron Pulls it back to her palm.
A howl bursts from Knife-bat just as his boss topples backward, one hand flying up to his spurting neck. A jet of blood catches Neph across the shoulder and cheek. It scorches like cooking oil, searing her skin, but she's still moving, spinning from her knees to her feet. Her stolen knife flies from her hand again, flipping into her other kidnapper's eye. That one drops silently as Neph revolves, momentum tearing her ceramic knife from Knife-bat's leg. He goes down screaming, blood spilling between his hands. How many heartbeats before it all pumps from that severed artery? Hannibal would know.
In the hovering split second while everyone else processes whatthefuck just happened and reaches for their weapons, Neph Pulls the metal knife from the dead man's eye socket and flings it across the room, where it sinks into the hairsbreadth between Hannibal's bound ankles, severing the ziptie in the process.
"MUTIE BITCH!" one of the other men screams, and then Neph's entire world splits into slivers, carved out by bullet ley-lines. She twists, a half-leap to the side that, backed by Steel and Iron, curves them impossibly around her body and into the stake of crates to her right. Someone who'd been sitting there, raising their own gun, goes down with a gurgling shriek.
Heart hammering, shoulders burning with the effort of redirecting speeding-bullet momentum, Neph launches herself off the ground and toward the depot's rafters. The corrugated metal roof overhead is as wide and solid as the earth, enough to belay herself onto a wide wooden beam. Shots from below send splinters exploding through the air as she runs along its length, hopefully leading them away, away from the boys and the barrels.