I choose my eternity
But when I got there I saw
That I had no choice at all
Forced Destiny
It's killing time
It's time to die
"You just had to tell them where the generator was didn't you? Like some fucking Bond villain, you dozy excuse for a ... "
Isaac's tirade towards Woodman died before it had even had the chance to warm up, fading into silence in the face of the man's expression. He was smiling. Why the hell was he smiling? This couldn't be good. In his, granted, limited experience smiles like that on a blood bag meant one thing. They weren't scared anymore. They knew death was coming, and it didn't matter what the hell they did. Those were the ones that sometimes got away. Just that thin-lipped little smile had meant a sudden end for more than one over confident lick. He upgraded his 'not good' to 'how does the Our Father go again?' when the smile widened, just a touch.
But the man didn't move from his death-side vigil over Anderson, it was Merchant who calmly eased herself up from her knees, taking a moment to smooth her crumpled and multi-stained skirt down.
"Do you think they've had enough time to get curious yet?"
Woodman mulled this over, tilting his head towards the window like he could hear some kind of countdown. "... Yeah. About now should do it. Have a quick look, then hit the switch."
Merchant squinted through the plexi-glass separating the observation room from the massive filing area. It looked like most of the vampires where now in the room, although grouped together they had become one patch of shadowed solid mass in the darkness and a head count was impossible.
The generator was still sparking pathetically from where it had been shot by what sounded suspiciously like the standard Uzi's that the Security Teams carried. Past tense. Very past tense.
Unknowingly matching Woodman's expression, she flipped the bank of switches before her. The first flick of a switch bought the metal containment door down on the cavernous room the monsters were investigating. She could almost feel the force of it slamming to the ground through her feet, despite the distance. The second opened the small vents in the ceiling of the storage area, allowing the gas behind them to silently begin to pour into the stale air. The third allowed her to speak to them. The rulebook said that was against the rules. You don't engage the monsters in conversation. Fuck the rulebook.
With a tone the mimic of all the very most insincere, saccharine sweet, hostesses or tour guides she had ever met, she spoke.
"Good evening ladies and gentleman, welcome to your final step of the tour of our facility."
Without turning she felt Woodman move up besides her, out of her peripheral vision saw him lean his hands on the surface before them and watch as the vampires scurried below trying to claw their way out, shooting uselessly at the door and bullet proof windows high above them.
She watched the dial, the tanks emptying hydrogen into the killing field through the glass were very nearly expended and her hand hovered over the last switch without a tremor. But a strangled wheeze behind her made her turn.
Isaac was standing, Anderson pulled up before him with fresh blood pouring down his neck and eyes wide open and frantic. Around his mouth was a fresh, wet, ring of red that his tongue instinctively sought out even with the dawning horror in his expression.
He was alive. He was better than alive. He was healed. Anderson tried to concentrate on the wonderfully pain free breaths he was taking rather than the coppery, sweet, tang in his mouth and flooding his senses. It was great. Everything was great. Except for the vampire using him as a human shield while it, almost painstakingly, sealed the wound it had created with it's tongue. It's tongue. Somehow worse than the teeth. It was only when he realised his train of thought had moved to tetanus shots and rabies that he considered he might, perhaps, have been in shock.
From the wide-eyed expression of the woman before him, he wasn't the only one. The gun she was pointing unwaveringly at his head was a little off-putting though. He was about to say something intelligent, just as soon as his brain decided on the merits between 'Don't shoot!' and 'Woman pretty. Gun bad', when the slightly hoarse voice he had only been dimly aware of before hissed from behind him.
"Is that how you say thank you? Remind me not to send you a Christmas card ..."
"What did you do to him?" Her voice was flat and her eyes were hard.
"We have the blood, we can rebuild him." He smirked, trying to keep as much of himself hidden behind the still near dead weight of the man as he could. "Stronger, faster ... better."
He could see her finger tightening on the trigger.
"Look! He's still breathing! He's not changed .. he's just not dying anymore."
Her voice slowed, each word clipped and harsh, her knuckle on the trigger whitened and straining not to complete it's inward path. Waiting, just waiting for Isaac to show enough to make a target.
"What. Did. You. Do. To. Him?"
"I took his blood and then I gave it back to him the good way. And if you don't put the canon down, I will snap his neck, tear his fucking head off and leave you standing in the red."
Well, he thought it sounded like a reasonable enough threat. Unfortunately, so did Anderson. The elbow in his chest came hard; he felt ribs crack under the human's borrowed strength. And then he discovered what being on the business end of a Hanegosh Judo throw felt like first hand. Interesting. Bastard.
Isaac stared up at the two agents standing over him as he lay on his back, catching a breath he didn't have. One still trying to get the last traces of his blood from his mouth, the other smiling as she pulled the trigger. He closed his eyes and thought about the girl.
Woodman was only barely aware of the commotion behind him, his attention riveted on the room beyond, trying desperately to ensure all the monsters were where they should be. But it was impossible to tell, and the constant barrage of bullets on the window separating them was starting to weaken the glass. Tiny hairline fractures were appearing, running along the partition like a ladder in his wife's stockings. She'd used nail polish to fix them; a snap shot in his mind of her grin when she only had the red she loved so much instead of the invisible clear. She'd used the red and called it a new fashion trend. He doubted nail polish would help here. They were out of time.
He flipped the last switch.
They were past out of time and into sudden death. The hydrogen became a near tornado of fire, too colossal to be called a fireball. The oxygen in the enclosed holding room gone in an instant. He heard the window cracking against the vacuum, knew in a split second it could not hold. And then it shattered out into the void, calling the back draft of rushing flame down on the observation room like the will of a vengeful God.
He could do nothing for Merchant as he heard her scream, or Anderson as the man's cry weakened with distance. As though he had been flung far away, the splintering of the wooden door behind them suggested he probably had. All Woodman could do was draw himself into a ball under the melting desk.
The roaring seemed to go on forever, but there was precious little in the mostly metal built area for the fire to feed on. Something cold brushed over his hands, clasped tightly over his head. Tentatively he raised his eyes. The smell of burning with thick in the air, too heavy for the thin wisps of smoke drifting over their battleground, he couldn't quite convince his mind to pursue the source of it. Really, who cared?
Everything that wasn't nailed down had been thrown back by the concussive weight of the blast. It took him a moment to realise the coolness he felt was the sprinklers kicking in half-heartedly. He was suddenly so tired. He didn't want to look to see if the others were alive. He wanted to sit and wait for dawn. It wasn't much to ask.
Then there was a moan. Dull eyed he half walked half staggered towards it, trying to force muscles that were mutinous into obeying him for just a little longer. Almost absently he patted down the part of his shirt still optimistically attempting to burn.
Merchant was on her side. Nothing burning, her leg at a bad angle and the white of the bone showing under a steady pulse of escaped blood. Her eyes were open but glazed, not feeling the pain yet. Maybe not even aware she was alive. Her eyes steadily began to blink against the damp strands of hair falling into them, he brushed the hair away and was rewarded with her gaze tracking his fingers. Her mouth moved but nothing came out, so he filled the silence quietly, his voice sounding dull and oddly distorted to his ears.
"Your leg's had a bit of a knock. Lie quiet and I'll get it set in a second. Just gotta go check on Anderson. Maybe stake him. Did he look like he had fangs or anything? Tendency to start mouthing off about a loony tunes girlfriend?"
His only response was that same glazed expression. Just as well, he was babbling and it wouldn't do his reputation much good to be caught at it. Then again, really, who cared?
Rather than stand he just crab-crawled to Anderson who was lying half in, half out of the room over the remnants of the door he had been thrown through. His back should have been broken, but already the other man was starting to sit up. Well, at least there were now handy sized bits of wood just lying around. Correction, starting to sit up while breathing heavily. He reached forward and took the unresisting Agent's wrist, feeling the firm pulse just below the seemingly fragile surface.
Sitting up appeared to be the extent of Anderson's willingness to move. His expression mirrored Merchant's, the retreat into numbness for just a little while. Well, he had been mostly dead all night, he pretty much deserved some cut out time.
As he dragged Anderson to the centre where Merchant still lay, he heard at last the precious sound of sirens. He couldn't see the dawn, but it was there. He knew it was there.
With a little sigh, Woodman lay back on the rubble and closed his eyes ... just for a little while.
Isaac reserved his pleasure at not being shot, deciding not to waste perfectly good emotion that could be used in abject terror for the fire that was about to consume him. He wondered if it would be quick.
Then he wondered why he was moving at speed into the corridor, definitely not under his own power. The arms that held him were cool, soft. His girl. Well ... of his chosen ways to die, being killed by her was definitely at the top of his list.
The arms released him, unceremoniously dropping him to the chill of the rough carpeting. Tentatively he stood, the rush of heat on his back making his skin crawl even a corridor away from the inferno. She was before him, looking up with that smile.
"They're all dead Isaac ... they went poof just like they were meant to. Good little boys. But the game's all boring now, I'm tired. Take me home?"
He watched her, not believing for a moment she had any intent on not killing him at all. She just changed her play. That was his girl. God she was beautiful.
Sweeping her into his arms he began to move towards the sound banging, fire crews trying to enter through doors just as determined not to let them. From the sound of it they had axes ... and blood. There was a good bet their bodies were just overflowing with it. Well, maybe not overflowing yet.
The Agents thought they were dead. The Pack thought they were dead. Death ... was good.
Knowing she couldn't hear him now, he spoke anyway as the first fireman nearly fell through the door onto him, neck conveniently level.
"Lusi? How's America sound ..."
He saved the hat. And he saved the head in it. She'd like it when she woke up ... and he was sweet like that.
I've still got your face
Painted on my heart
Scrawled upon my soul
Etched upon my memory baby
I've got your kiss
Still burning on my lips
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Songs: Lyrics from Deadspeak and The Cult "Painted On My Heart"
Feedback: Good or bad, 's all groovy :)
Archive: Can't imagine anyone wanting to, but sure if you just lemme now where it's going.
Disclaimer: White Wolf's world. Sue me not.
A/N: For anyone interested, Lusi was Malkavian Antitribu (natch), Isaac was a Pander. Thank you to everyone that's reviewed! This one is all done. Don't think there's be another. (Stop cheering ... :P)