He Kindly Stopped For Me
*****
The smell of mixed oil is stinging my nose. Ah well. It's not like I've never smelled it before. I'm supposed to be a machine expert, after all.
The words don't sound right as I roll them in my head, verbatim from the I.D. card still riding in my pocket. Jill Valentine, S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team, machine expert.
Expert. Now THAT'S a stupid word. Stupid, like those brain-dead mercenaries they sent in. Pop a cap in a few zombies and suddenly you're calling yourself "expert".
Would that make me an expert? I survived the mansion (wouldn't that look great printed on a t-shirt?). I've seen this show before. Do I get the luxury of calling myself "expert"?
What a great consolation THAT'LL be when it's tearing the meat from my bones.
I know it's out there. I even thought about warning the mercs about it, but I need their help. We've got to work together if we want to stay alive.
And I want to live. I've got two guns and a way out, and I'm not going to stop now.
Besides, the mercs know the score. Mikhail needs proper medical attention. Carlos saw that I was the free-fire zone and in the same breath managed to hit on me.
(Jerk.)
And Nicholai...
...Well, I saw what he is. I heard the shot, heard the soldier cry for mercy, found that Nicholai has none. If he decides it would be more practical to kill me than to be my "friend", I won't have to worry about the monster.
Speaking of which, I haven't seen the monster for a while now...
Never mind. If I don't hurry up and haul ass downtown, my cable car is going to turn into a pumpkin.
The crackling and hissing of the fire is making my nerves pop. The chill September wind tries vainly to hold me as I skirt the flames, unable to turn off the unnatural warmth.
I can't help but smile as I approach the cable car. It's beautiful somehow, as dingy and battered as it is amidst the burning flames.
I take one last look behind me before heading in, taking in the wreck that was my home. I'm already starting to forget how it used to be...
No time for that. My carriage awaits.
The sparks of the injured machine burn me like the stings of tiny wasps. A minor pain, something to be irritated by, then forget. Like the other pains...
Keep telling yourself that, Jilly.
"Nicholai...won't be joining us," I tell Carlos, even as I think, I should have shot that bastard when I had the chance.
"I see." There's a look on his face, like a child waiting to be slapped, that tells me he doesn't really believe we'll make it out. Tense, like he's waiting for something...
As if on cue, the cable car rocks back and forth. I know what it is. Death isn't planning to let me go without a fight.
I sprint into the adjoining car, thinking I should have moved Mikhail, I should have emptied a clip into the monster's face in the restaurant, I should have told Chris I love him, I should have died in the mansion, I should have tried my hand at acting, I should have, I should have, I should have.
It's me and my gun, and I know it's not going to be enough. The clock is striking twelve and my carriage is a pumpkin, rotting like so much else in this city...
One word hisses out of its ruined mouth. "S.T.A.R.S."
I hear more than see Mikhail pull the pin, and my brain barely has time to form the word grenade, then he's telling me to run. Clumsily, almost stupidly, I obey.
God help me, I had to leave him in there. I had to.
The explosion rocks the cable car. Carlos is yelling something about...the brakes?
Oh, God. That's IT. I can only deal with a million and two problems at a time. A million and three is just out of my league. If one more thing goes wrong today, I'm out of solutions.
I smash my fist through the glass protecting the emergency brake from me. Ignoring the quick pain, I jam my palm down onto it.
The screaming of the tortured metal drowns out my own cry as I'm tossed out of the cable car like a rag doll. That's the second window I've been thrown through today. Just call me Jill the human battering ram; my skin should be sliced to ribbons.
Blood and thicker things are slipping down my skin. I can't get up, and I've never realized how dark the backs of my eyelids are. But I'm alive, and that thing can't have...
I hear motion in the ruins of the cable car. Its broken windows grin at me as I wait.
*****
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me--
The carriage held but just Ourselves
And Immortality.
*****
Author's Note: That belongs to Emily Dickinson; I can't remember the number of that particular poem, but she gets the pain right. Even when it's not pain, she still gets it right.
"The poem's about death," someone yelled in the poetry class, waving their hand like a flag of triumph. I resisted the urge to say, Sure, genius, you just might beat out Jill for the position of Captain Obvious (who can forget RE1: "Chris, what are you doing in that CAGE? I'll be right back--don't GO anywhere.").
Jill apparently wasn't happy with the remark; she accosted me in the silent library after class. "Fine, you're so smart," she huffed. "Why don't I get a fic? Why should Claire and Leon have all the fun?"
So Jill, my deepest apologies. Your fic, above. *^_^* Please review!
*****
The smell of mixed oil is stinging my nose. Ah well. It's not like I've never smelled it before. I'm supposed to be a machine expert, after all.
The words don't sound right as I roll them in my head, verbatim from the I.D. card still riding in my pocket. Jill Valentine, S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team, machine expert.
Expert. Now THAT'S a stupid word. Stupid, like those brain-dead mercenaries they sent in. Pop a cap in a few zombies and suddenly you're calling yourself "expert".
Would that make me an expert? I survived the mansion (wouldn't that look great printed on a t-shirt?). I've seen this show before. Do I get the luxury of calling myself "expert"?
What a great consolation THAT'LL be when it's tearing the meat from my bones.
I know it's out there. I even thought about warning the mercs about it, but I need their help. We've got to work together if we want to stay alive.
And I want to live. I've got two guns and a way out, and I'm not going to stop now.
Besides, the mercs know the score. Mikhail needs proper medical attention. Carlos saw that I was the free-fire zone and in the same breath managed to hit on me.
(Jerk.)
And Nicholai...
...Well, I saw what he is. I heard the shot, heard the soldier cry for mercy, found that Nicholai has none. If he decides it would be more practical to kill me than to be my "friend", I won't have to worry about the monster.
Speaking of which, I haven't seen the monster for a while now...
Never mind. If I don't hurry up and haul ass downtown, my cable car is going to turn into a pumpkin.
The crackling and hissing of the fire is making my nerves pop. The chill September wind tries vainly to hold me as I skirt the flames, unable to turn off the unnatural warmth.
I can't help but smile as I approach the cable car. It's beautiful somehow, as dingy and battered as it is amidst the burning flames.
I take one last look behind me before heading in, taking in the wreck that was my home. I'm already starting to forget how it used to be...
No time for that. My carriage awaits.
The sparks of the injured machine burn me like the stings of tiny wasps. A minor pain, something to be irritated by, then forget. Like the other pains...
Keep telling yourself that, Jilly.
"Nicholai...won't be joining us," I tell Carlos, even as I think, I should have shot that bastard when I had the chance.
"I see." There's a look on his face, like a child waiting to be slapped, that tells me he doesn't really believe we'll make it out. Tense, like he's waiting for something...
As if on cue, the cable car rocks back and forth. I know what it is. Death isn't planning to let me go without a fight.
I sprint into the adjoining car, thinking I should have moved Mikhail, I should have emptied a clip into the monster's face in the restaurant, I should have told Chris I love him, I should have died in the mansion, I should have tried my hand at acting, I should have, I should have, I should have.
It's me and my gun, and I know it's not going to be enough. The clock is striking twelve and my carriage is a pumpkin, rotting like so much else in this city...
One word hisses out of its ruined mouth. "S.T.A.R.S."
I hear more than see Mikhail pull the pin, and my brain barely has time to form the word grenade, then he's telling me to run. Clumsily, almost stupidly, I obey.
God help me, I had to leave him in there. I had to.
The explosion rocks the cable car. Carlos is yelling something about...the brakes?
Oh, God. That's IT. I can only deal with a million and two problems at a time. A million and three is just out of my league. If one more thing goes wrong today, I'm out of solutions.
I smash my fist through the glass protecting the emergency brake from me. Ignoring the quick pain, I jam my palm down onto it.
The screaming of the tortured metal drowns out my own cry as I'm tossed out of the cable car like a rag doll. That's the second window I've been thrown through today. Just call me Jill the human battering ram; my skin should be sliced to ribbons.
Blood and thicker things are slipping down my skin. I can't get up, and I've never realized how dark the backs of my eyelids are. But I'm alive, and that thing can't have...
I hear motion in the ruins of the cable car. Its broken windows grin at me as I wait.
*****
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me--
The carriage held but just Ourselves
And Immortality.
*****
Author's Note: That belongs to Emily Dickinson; I can't remember the number of that particular poem, but she gets the pain right. Even when it's not pain, she still gets it right.
"The poem's about death," someone yelled in the poetry class, waving their hand like a flag of triumph. I resisted the urge to say, Sure, genius, you just might beat out Jill for the position of Captain Obvious (who can forget RE1: "Chris, what are you doing in that CAGE? I'll be right back--don't GO anywhere.").
Jill apparently wasn't happy with the remark; she accosted me in the silent library after class. "Fine, you're so smart," she huffed. "Why don't I get a fic? Why should Claire and Leon have all the fun?"
So Jill, my deepest apologies. Your fic, above. *^_^* Please review!