Hannibal narrows his eyes as he releases her shoulders. Neph's still sorting out how she feels about his suspicious scrutiny when he scoops Will up into a princess carry, and then her train of thought jumps the rails. She's always known he was stronger than the khakis and button-downs let on - the two of them hauled that antique couch into the apartment - but it hadn't ever really meant anything before. Seeing it now triggers a distracted sense of satisfaction, her lizard brain congratulating itself on choosing an appropriately badass partner. Under less insane circumstances she might even be smug, but the warm rush in her chest is too startlingly alien to flourish.
Since he's got his hands full of bleeding boyfriend, Neph readily nods when he asks her to handle the arson. Her left hand flexes at her side, working fingers stretching against the stiffness of shock and pain. After everything she's already done tonight, of course she can handle a couple of makeshift grenades--
Hannibal steps into her space, Will tucked close to his chest but still bulky enough that his shoulder bumps hers. Neph rocks in place, face crimping. She opens her mouth to remind him the door's over on the other side of the room when he cranes over Will and all but kisses her hair. His words are so warm against her scalp, there may not be anything 'almost' about it.
I will not leave without you.
The sloping lines of her shoulders don't straighten, but they do sharpen to rigid angles. She looks up at him with a face that's 60% widened eyes, skin bone white behind the drying blood. He doesn't look directly at her, not that she'd know what to do with eye contact if he'd offered it. Neph came here willing to do terrible things to rescue or avenge these boys, with unknown odds of success and no odds at all on there still being a we afterward. The screaming six year old inside her expected them to be wrapped up in shock blankets and whisked away in an ambulance, never to smile at or touch her again.
She doesn't have the words to tell him so, or any way to order the words for what that promise means to her. They fill her mouth like naptha, like embalming cotton, like a thousand tiny charms for safe passage through the dark. She swallows them down, where they fill the empty spaces left by tapped Allomantic metals.
"Okay," she says, as he steps back to carry Will toward the exit. "Just--gimme a minute."
The pool of light in the center of the warehouse does not extend to the door, and she's too tired to expend the Tin to watch them through the shadows. Neph can't tell if either of them look back, so maybe someone sees her with her left hand pressed to her mouth, holding in the charms and the knowledge that she'd have done worse than simply 'terrible things' for this. Her actions tonight may slip sideways through her wandering thoughts for the rest of her life, her skin may never cool where blood painted her face, but she'd do it and more over again.
Now, though, there are bodies. An awful lot of bodies, only half of them her doing. The warehouse reeks of blood and opened cavities, of things spilled into the dirt. Neph breathes through her mouth as she returns to the center of the circled boxes, where the first bodies hit the ground. She goes to her knees beside the ringleader, whose staring eyes are already fuzzed over with dust and lint. A quick rifle through his flak vest turns up an extra clip, a multi tool, a cell phone and a roll of twenties. She has to dig for his wallet, reaching under the body to pry it from a back pocket. That she keeps, along with the cell and the cash. The others might've been weekend warriors, but this guy was a fanatic, and it's better she look him up than the cops, who could connect the anti-mutant dots. The more she can muddy that trail, the better.
Another of the dead men wore one of those checked arabic scarves, which Neph tugs loose and winds around her elbow. The guy who kicked her in the ribs has a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his pocket. She keeps the latter. The makeshift card table provides a couple of beer bottles. She snags three by their necks between her splayed fingers, and carries her findings back to the oil drums.
Nails and bolts pulled from the ceiling make ideal projectiles for puncturing steel oil drums. Viscous brown fluid fountains from multiple small holes, the flow settling from a spray to thin streams. Neph kneels down to fill the bottles one by one, tearing strips off the scarf with her teeth and good hand as oil mingles with the dregs of cheap beer. She drops another stud into each bottle, stoppers the open mouths and gathers her little bombs in the crook of her sling.
The man who'd shot at Will, the one who wrecked her hand, lies on his back nearby. Neph heaves to her feet, looks down at the ruin of his face and risks a look at her own hand. The agony's faded to something like holding a live coal in her palm; maybe her brain shut down to protect itself, Hannibal would know. Her broken fingers bleed even now, blood dripping down the front of her shirt and jeans. Skin swells over splintered bone, so purple as to be black. Her ring and pinky fingers unrecognizable. Kinda like this guy's face. "Wow, Hannibal," she mutters.
Neph shoulders the door open more than just a 'few minutes' later. Unrefined oil fumes billow out around her, overriding the copper-sweet smell of new death. She turns, stolen lighter in her left hand and three molotovs tucked into the bend of her elbow. A flick of her thumb, a touch of flame to the linen, and the last embers of her Iron and Steel levitate and direct the bottles - they hit the slowly spreading pools of oil and burst with a soft whumphf.
Before it can really go up and blind her, Neph reels around to face the parking lot. As heat blooms against her back, all she can think is whether or not Hannibal even knows how to hotwire a car.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2017-07-23 12:04 am (UTC)Since he's got his hands full of bleeding boyfriend, Neph readily nods when he asks her to handle the arson. Her left hand flexes at her side, working fingers stretching against the stiffness of shock and pain. After everything she's already done tonight, of course she can handle a couple of makeshift grenades--
Hannibal steps into her space, Will tucked close to his chest but still bulky enough that his shoulder bumps hers. Neph rocks in place, face crimping. She opens her mouth to remind him the door's over on the other side of the room when he cranes over Will and all but kisses her hair. His words are so warm against her scalp, there may not be anything 'almost' about it.
I will not leave without you.
The sloping lines of her shoulders don't straighten, but they do sharpen to rigid angles. She looks up at him with a face that's 60% widened eyes, skin bone white behind the drying blood. He doesn't look directly at her, not that she'd know what to do with eye contact if he'd offered it. Neph came here willing to do terrible things to rescue or avenge these boys, with unknown odds of success and no odds at all on there still being a we afterward. The screaming six year old inside her expected them to be wrapped up in shock blankets and whisked away in an ambulance, never to smile at or touch her again.
She doesn't have the words to tell him so, or any way to order the words for what that promise means to her. They fill her mouth like naptha, like embalming cotton, like a thousand tiny charms for safe passage through the dark. She swallows them down, where they fill the empty spaces left by tapped Allomantic metals.
"Okay," she says, as he steps back to carry Will toward the exit. "Just--gimme a minute."
The pool of light in the center of the warehouse does not extend to the door, and she's too tired to expend the Tin to watch them through the shadows. Neph can't tell if either of them look back, so maybe someone sees her with her left hand pressed to her mouth, holding in the charms and the knowledge that she'd have done worse than simply 'terrible things' for this. Her actions tonight may slip sideways through her wandering thoughts for the rest of her life, her skin may never cool where blood painted her face, but she'd do it and more over again.
Now, though, there are bodies. An awful lot of bodies, only half of them her doing. The warehouse reeks of blood and opened cavities, of things spilled into the dirt. Neph breathes through her mouth as she returns to the center of the circled boxes, where the first bodies hit the ground. She goes to her knees beside the ringleader, whose staring eyes are already fuzzed over with dust and lint. A quick rifle through his flak vest turns up an extra clip, a multi tool, a cell phone and a roll of twenties. She has to dig for his wallet, reaching under the body to pry it from a back pocket. That she keeps, along with the cell and the cash. The others might've been weekend warriors, but this guy was a fanatic, and it's better she look him up than the cops, who could connect the anti-mutant dots. The more she can muddy that trail, the better.
Another of the dead men wore one of those checked arabic scarves, which Neph tugs loose and winds around her elbow. The guy who kicked her in the ribs has a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his pocket. She keeps the latter. The makeshift card table provides a couple of beer bottles. She snags three by their necks between her splayed fingers, and carries her findings back to the oil drums.
Nails and bolts pulled from the ceiling make ideal projectiles for puncturing steel oil drums. Viscous brown fluid fountains from multiple small holes, the flow settling from a spray to thin streams. Neph kneels down to fill the bottles one by one, tearing strips off the scarf with her teeth and good hand as oil mingles with the dregs of cheap beer. She drops another stud into each bottle, stoppers the open mouths and gathers her little bombs in the crook of her sling.
The man who'd shot at Will, the one who wrecked her hand, lies on his back nearby. Neph heaves to her feet, looks down at the ruin of his face and risks a look at her own hand. The agony's faded to something like holding a live coal in her palm; maybe her brain shut down to protect itself, Hannibal would know. Her broken fingers bleed even now, blood dripping down the front of her shirt and jeans. Skin swells over splintered bone, so purple as to be black. Her ring and pinky fingers unrecognizable. Kinda like this guy's face. "Wow, Hannibal," she mutters.
Neph shoulders the door open more than just a 'few minutes' later. Unrefined oil fumes billow out around her, overriding the copper-sweet smell of new death. She turns, stolen lighter in her left hand and three molotovs tucked into the bend of her elbow. A flick of her thumb, a touch of flame to the linen, and the last embers of her Iron and Steel levitate and direct the bottles - they hit the slowly spreading pools of oil and burst with a soft whumphf.
Before it can really go up and blind her, Neph reels around to face the parking lot. As heat blooms against her back, all she can think is whether or not Hannibal even knows how to hotwire a car.
She forgot to grab anybody's keys.