Outside the gathering boil of Will's fear and contested morals, Hannibal rises. He steps outside the circle of Will's hidden spot behind the oil drum, flicks his stolen knife into a better grip in his hand, and slips towards the sea of hatred boiling in front of him.
Mercury lights through Hannibal's veins, cold and heavy poison that he has every intention to take out on the enemies around them. Concerns for Will and Neph don't leave, but they harden and grow lighter, ready weapons for him to use as he instinctively slides along shadows. He needs a better vantage point to make sure he heads off anyone coming for Will, ensures he's able to interrupt anyone coming at a blind spot of Neph's--
Neph's landed in front of him, a flash of metal and polished stone the only signals before blood glugs out of the man underneath her, the angry power of neck arteries emptying onto the warehouse floor.
Neph is a fighter like him. The thrill of being metaphorically back to back against an enemy that she can excuse killing with him is a strong draw. He smiles, in that moment where she makes eye contact, his own eyes black with pupil and heart rate steady.
He'll take out the ones she leaves behind.
There is a real pleasure in the way his mind becomes fortified, a thousand cogs and lattices and bulwarks all swiping into new formations as quickly as he flicks through plans. Focused and punishingly fast, Hannibal's mind thrives under time constraints and pressure.
He still finds himself watching the way Neph twists metal around two of them, gets to see firsthand and for the first time the utter loss at which anyone not like herself is in the face of her powers. It's like looking at God, merciless and final.
Except God has left the flanking pair to creep at the catwalk stairs, and so Hannibal is flush against the shadows in their wake. Which one has the best reaction time, looks the most calm? Hannibal comes in for him first, knife slotting in horizontal between ribs. It's a heavy spot to place it, runs the risk of sticking his blade for too long, so Hannibal doesn't wrench it back out right away.
The man he's stabbed from behind is already gasping and breathing wet and doomed. Hannibal is flush up against his back in an instant, shoulder touching the hilt of the knife he's just shoved through to the man's lung, and Hannibal's hands go for the gun.
The man's already holding it, as he sputters a warning to the third man with them. That one has a gun, too, and a quick trigger finger, but he hits only the air and then his friend's arm as he circles back. Before he's swung that arc in tighter, Hannibal's squeezed off one bullet, and a puff of ripped fabric and then oozing blood appears on the third man's shirt, near his belly button.
Not fatal. While he's staggering from the pain and blowback, though, Hannibal plants a knee against the stabbed man's hip, leverages the knife out in two wet jerks, and shoves him the rest of the way forward. He crumples into the stairs.
The knife never gets caught in the third man's body. It comes right through, from beside the esophagus out through muscle and arteries at the side of his throat. Hannibal takes some of the spray to his hair, ear, and the edge of his face, and as the force dies off it arcs slower. His pants below the knees get drenched a dark maroon as he stands back up.
That's Neph assisted. But how's Will faring?
*
Will's pulse is rabbit-quick. Hannibal had briefly explained it was a result of blood loss, but that blossoms across from physiological response to psychological one. Will finds that the more his breath picks up, the more his heart flutters high up on his ribs, the easier it is to look across his mind to the abyss opening up.
It's a cavernous gap, between himself on one side and Hannibal and Neph on the other. They're holding hands and watching him - not with mocking, but concern and genuine pity. They want him to cross the thin, wavering rope bridge over to their side. Will stands at the edge of the cliff and feels rocks crumble away from his feet.
Each of them holds in their free hand a human head, dangling from blood-matted hair.
Will rubs fingers and then his palms against his closed eyes, willing the phantoms away.
He rolls over. He's not entirely sure when he ended up on his back, but he rolls to his side and grabs one of the milk crates that was being used as a seat and heaves up to sit. Hannibal's out there. Neph's out there. Both of them are risking their lives to help make sure everyone survives.
Fuck. Fuck, this is hard.
Will scoots along to the dead body Hannibal left earlier. He's still warm, eyes still open. Will presses fingers against his lids, drags them down - with more sticky resistance than the movies show - and takes the gun holstered at his side.
He can do this. He's fired guns plenty of times.
Just never at anything more human than a range's paper target.
"Drop it, freak."
Will freezes as best he can, entire body still vibrating with energy and effort. His hands are both on the little handgun. It's loaded; he just fumbled through checking.
His periphery shows another one of the militia men, something metallic and too large in his hands. Rifle. Will feels like he's drowning, like each new breath leaves him more light-headed and closer to death.
He could try to fire off his own stolen gun before he's shot.
But he catches the man's eye as he turns, and even with hatred and fear choking him, Will can't raise his gun.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2017-07-05 02:26 am (UTC)Mercury lights through Hannibal's veins, cold and heavy poison that he has every intention to take out on the enemies around them. Concerns for Will and Neph don't leave, but they harden and grow lighter, ready weapons for him to use as he instinctively slides along shadows. He needs a better vantage point to make sure he heads off anyone coming for Will, ensures he's able to interrupt anyone coming at a blind spot of Neph's--
Neph's landed in front of him, a flash of metal and polished stone the only signals before blood glugs out of the man underneath her, the angry power of neck arteries emptying onto the warehouse floor.
Neph is a fighter like him. The thrill of being metaphorically back to back against an enemy that she can excuse killing with him is a strong draw. He smiles, in that moment where she makes eye contact, his own eyes black with pupil and heart rate steady.
He'll take out the ones she leaves behind.
There is a real pleasure in the way his mind becomes fortified, a thousand cogs and lattices and bulwarks all swiping into new formations as quickly as he flicks through plans. Focused and punishingly fast, Hannibal's mind thrives under time constraints and pressure.
He still finds himself watching the way Neph twists metal around two of them, gets to see firsthand and for the first time the utter loss at which anyone not like herself is in the face of her powers. It's like looking at God, merciless and final.
Except God has left the flanking pair to creep at the catwalk stairs, and so Hannibal is flush against the shadows in their wake. Which one has the best reaction time, looks the most calm? Hannibal comes in for him first, knife slotting in horizontal between ribs. It's a heavy spot to place it, runs the risk of sticking his blade for too long, so Hannibal doesn't wrench it back out right away.
The man he's stabbed from behind is already gasping and breathing wet and doomed. Hannibal is flush up against his back in an instant, shoulder touching the hilt of the knife he's just shoved through to the man's lung, and Hannibal's hands go for the gun.
The man's already holding it, as he sputters a warning to the third man with them. That one has a gun, too, and a quick trigger finger, but he hits only the air and then his friend's arm as he circles back. Before he's swung that arc in tighter, Hannibal's squeezed off one bullet, and a puff of ripped fabric and then oozing blood appears on the third man's shirt, near his belly button.
Not fatal. While he's staggering from the pain and blowback, though, Hannibal plants a knee against the stabbed man's hip, leverages the knife out in two wet jerks, and shoves him the rest of the way forward. He crumples into the stairs.
The knife never gets caught in the third man's body. It comes right through, from beside the esophagus out through muscle and arteries at the side of his throat. Hannibal takes some of the spray to his hair, ear, and the edge of his face, and as the force dies off it arcs slower. His pants below the knees get drenched a dark maroon as he stands back up.
That's Neph assisted. But how's Will faring?
*
Will's pulse is rabbit-quick. Hannibal had briefly explained it was a result of blood loss, but that blossoms across from physiological response to psychological one. Will finds that the more his breath picks up, the more his heart flutters high up on his ribs, the easier it is to look across his mind to the abyss opening up.
It's a cavernous gap, between himself on one side and Hannibal and Neph on the other. They're holding hands and watching him - not with mocking, but concern and genuine pity. They want him to cross the thin, wavering rope bridge over to their side. Will stands at the edge of the cliff and feels rocks crumble away from his feet.
Each of them holds in their free hand a human head, dangling from blood-matted hair.
Will rubs fingers and then his palms against his closed eyes, willing the phantoms away.
He rolls over. He's not entirely sure when he ended up on his back, but he rolls to his side and grabs one of the milk crates that was being used as a seat and heaves up to sit. Hannibal's out there. Neph's out there. Both of them are risking their lives to help make sure everyone survives.
Fuck. Fuck, this is hard.
Will scoots along to the dead body Hannibal left earlier. He's still warm, eyes still open. Will presses fingers against his lids, drags them down - with more sticky resistance than the movies show - and takes the gun holstered at his side.
He can do this. He's fired guns plenty of times.
Just never at anything more human than a range's paper target.
"Drop it, freak."
Will freezes as best he can, entire body still vibrating with energy and effort. His hands are both on the little handgun. It's loaded; he just fumbled through checking.
His periphery shows another one of the militia men, something metallic and too large in his hands. Rifle. Will feels like he's drowning, like each new breath leaves him more light-headed and closer to death.
He could try to fire off his own stolen gun before he's shot.
But he catches the man's eye as he turns, and even with hatred and fear choking him, Will can't raise his gun.