Move your ass, man. They'll catch up to you.
Go, you prick!
Down the street. Turn the corner. Pass that useless streetlight.
Wipe the rain from your eyes.
Look.
Wipe the blood from your eyes.
Look, dammit! There it is.
With a loud, splashing sort of noise, one of the two large wooden doors of an old church swung open forcefully, although the tall, burly man standing in its threshold seemed to have barely touched it. He was much too busy leaning on its partner for support, while his hand clamped over what looked like a nasty gash on the left side of his torso. Through the gaps of his long fingers the wound was visible: red and angry and charred, even smoking around the edges, as if it had just been pulled out of a fire.
Raindrops like bullets pelted him as he paused there, almost egging him to get a move on. But compared to what he had just dealt with, they felt like feathers, merely tickling the back of his neck as they slid down the tips of his brown hair. He was relishing in the sensation, letting his body weight sink tiredly against the varnished wood until his stubbled cheek was pressed against it. How nice it would have been to close his eyes and just drift off right then and there? He was right on his way to doing so, too, until he was interrupted.
Hey buddy, wanna go inside, maybe?
An irritated groan escaped the male’s lips as he pushed himself off of the door and finally limped into the building. I don't know about you, but I don't think you'd be up for another round if they do decide to come and check to see if you're really dead. "Shut up," he growled in reply as he struggled towards the wall, lifting his hand and waving it weakly as he went. In response, the growing puddle of water that had been idle at the entrance rose like a small wave, reaching out to the opened door and pushing it closed before collapsing back into its unanimated itself. “You're half the reason I'm even like this…” There was the click of the metal lock, and then only the sounds of the pouring rain outside and the man’s slow trek to the altar could be heard.
The inside of the church was dark, damp, and somewhat eerie. Dried leaves crunched underneath his dragging feet as he moved, and by the way the pews were all askew, it was obvious that this place had not been used in a long while.
He couldn't have gone more than halfway from the entry before he emitted a heavy hiss and gave up, letting his body slip down slowly to sit on the dirtied cobblestone floor. With his back against the wall he could see the trail of blood he’d left along it, a dark red traitorous trail that would lead his predators straight to him.
“Those arrogant fucks...” he muttered hotly, smarting as he tried to straighten his legs out from beneath him, “Thinking they know best... Pfft… Think they've got... Ultimate plan, my ass-” A bout of violent coughs followed, each punctuated by low groans of agony. The man clutched at the damage on his side as if that would stop the fit, but it only reminded him of just how painful the damned thing was. After another moment or two, the outburst died down, and he was able to catch his breath. Then suddenly he pounded his fist against the floor and shook his head a little, mumbling incoherently to himself under his breath. "Foolish… They'll never… All wrong..."
He was so very... The list went on and on, it seemed. Tired? Hurt? Ashamed? Abandoned? Yes, abandoned... His head drifted backward until it too was resting against the wall, his pale face disturbing the line of crimson behind him. The rain had washed off nearly all the blood that was caked onto the side of his face from a laceration in his scalp, allowing him to lift his pale grey eyes to the ceiling. “They don’t know what they’re doing.” It was as simple - and as complicated - as that. "They don't know…"
Those assholes are going to ruin everything. Everything we've worked for...
The male pushed out a sigh that almost hinted at resignation. His irises seemed to be losing focus as they roamed towards the alter, scaling up the Christ figure with an air of detachment, before the hand laying limply on the cobblestone beside him twitched a finger. Flames erupted from wicks of candles that hadn't been used in who knew how long, illuminating the front of the church and only just reaching him. Bathed in the familiar warmth, he allowed the lids of his eyes to droop closed, his face calm but for the slight furrowing of his brow.
Damn. Really wish we had some wine, eh?
Arlo scoffed, but he really wouldn't have minded a glass. It was all he could do to keep his mind off the pain and just wait for the beginning of the end.
#
Rain was a stereotypical thing indeed. It often prefaced events of cliched origins and it had no problems living up to societal expectations in regards to its many different functions. In literature, rain was often indicative of a tragic scene either occurring or just about to do so. In film and television, rain was often used for more powerful, hard-hitting scenes that required the kind of visceral, visually impressive editing and transition that brought the term "award-winning" to many a creative work. In this case however, it was the reality of the situation that stood out. On this particular night, the rain that pummeled the five bodies beneath the sky was going to be unique. This was the night that the myth of the Guardians was finally going to graduate from whispering rumors to an absolute truth. Varrina Terry, at the least, was going to make sure of that.
A stone cold expression on her face, Varrina ignored the pelting of water drops and trudged through knee-high blades of wilted grass. Nothing so insignificant as rain was going to ruin this moment now. Too many years had been invested into this journey to let a little mud force an unnecessary lull. Besides, she had been prepared for a day like this. Old denim jeans stuffed themselves into solid-colored hiking boots under a white t-shirt which hid under a lightweight, black jacket which hid under a heavier purple hoodie. With her hood pulled up over a mess of soaked hair and contacts in place of glasses, Varrina's focus remained tight on the old church building that grew ever closer. It was a thing of irony for the truth of the world to lay hidden in that kind of building, but those thoughts weren't worth thinking at the moment.
As the group finally managed to reach the underside of the canopied wooden doors, Varrina pulled off her hood and immediately remembered the heft in the small of her back. She wasn't personally a fan of weaponry, but at least one person had to live to tell this tale to the public, right? Not even turning to face the group, eccentric tendencies kicked in and Varrina began quickly etching notes into a small black journal. "The moment is here.... O-our time is now." She said outloud. This was her way of addressing the group as a whole when she got excited. It had happened many times before, but this was a much more subdued excitement than in the past. The truth was that fear had gripped the heart of the dedicated cultist, even in the seconds before all her ramblings, speeches, and declarations would be backed up.
Breathing deeply for a moment, Varrina pushed open the doors and immediately stepped inside along with the rest of the group. A musky smell filled the air and an incomplete darkness curled around a trail of deep crimson, eventually leading to a slumped figure against the wall. It looked like the shape of a human from afar, but Varrina didn't give that any thought. She knew what she had come here for, regardless of the rest of the group. Her giddy nature began to take over and she started losing herself in a moment that slowly engulfed her entire mentality. Instinctively, she reached for and brandished the .22 caliber pistol she'd been provided with earlier that day. She held the weight at her side, her arm loose and enslaved to the power of the heft in her right hand. Eyes glazed over and a slight smirk twisting onto her face, Varrina began an excruciatingly slow drag towards the figure.
It would take the another member of the group to stop her impulsive behavior, as it often did, but in this moment of victory, Varrina had only one thought in mind.
It was time to begin the chaos.
Go, you prick!
Down the street. Turn the corner. Pass that useless streetlight.
Wipe the rain from your eyes.
Look.
Wipe the blood from your eyes.
Look, dammit! There it is.
With a loud, splashing sort of noise, one of the two large wooden doors of an old church swung open forcefully, although the tall, burly man standing in its threshold seemed to have barely touched it. He was much too busy leaning on its partner for support, while his hand clamped over what looked like a nasty gash on the left side of his torso. Through the gaps of his long fingers the wound was visible: red and angry and charred, even smoking around the edges, as if it had just been pulled out of a fire.
Raindrops like bullets pelted him as he paused there, almost egging him to get a move on. But compared to what he had just dealt with, they felt like feathers, merely tickling the back of his neck as they slid down the tips of his brown hair. He was relishing in the sensation, letting his body weight sink tiredly against the varnished wood until his stubbled cheek was pressed against it. How nice it would have been to close his eyes and just drift off right then and there? He was right on his way to doing so, too, until he was interrupted.
Hey buddy, wanna go inside, maybe?
An irritated groan escaped the male’s lips as he pushed himself off of the door and finally limped into the building. I don't know about you, but I don't think you'd be up for another round if they do decide to come and check to see if you're really dead. "Shut up," he growled in reply as he struggled towards the wall, lifting his hand and waving it weakly as he went. In response, the growing puddle of water that had been idle at the entrance rose like a small wave, reaching out to the opened door and pushing it closed before collapsing back into its unanimated itself. “You're half the reason I'm even like this…” There was the click of the metal lock, and then only the sounds of the pouring rain outside and the man’s slow trek to the altar could be heard.
The inside of the church was dark, damp, and somewhat eerie. Dried leaves crunched underneath his dragging feet as he moved, and by the way the pews were all askew, it was obvious that this place had not been used in a long while.
He couldn't have gone more than halfway from the entry before he emitted a heavy hiss and gave up, letting his body slip down slowly to sit on the dirtied cobblestone floor. With his back against the wall he could see the trail of blood he’d left along it, a dark red traitorous trail that would lead his predators straight to him.
“Those arrogant fucks...” he muttered hotly, smarting as he tried to straighten his legs out from beneath him, “Thinking they know best... Pfft… Think they've got... Ultimate plan, my ass-” A bout of violent coughs followed, each punctuated by low groans of agony. The man clutched at the damage on his side as if that would stop the fit, but it only reminded him of just how painful the damned thing was. After another moment or two, the outburst died down, and he was able to catch his breath. Then suddenly he pounded his fist against the floor and shook his head a little, mumbling incoherently to himself under his breath. "Foolish… They'll never… All wrong..."
He was so very... The list went on and on, it seemed. Tired? Hurt? Ashamed? Abandoned? Yes, abandoned... His head drifted backward until it too was resting against the wall, his pale face disturbing the line of crimson behind him. The rain had washed off nearly all the blood that was caked onto the side of his face from a laceration in his scalp, allowing him to lift his pale grey eyes to the ceiling. “They don’t know what they’re doing.” It was as simple - and as complicated - as that. "They don't know…"
Those assholes are going to ruin everything. Everything we've worked for...
The male pushed out a sigh that almost hinted at resignation. His irises seemed to be losing focus as they roamed towards the alter, scaling up the Christ figure with an air of detachment, before the hand laying limply on the cobblestone beside him twitched a finger. Flames erupted from wicks of candles that hadn't been used in who knew how long, illuminating the front of the church and only just reaching him. Bathed in the familiar warmth, he allowed the lids of his eyes to droop closed, his face calm but for the slight furrowing of his brow.
Damn. Really wish we had some wine, eh?
Arlo scoffed, but he really wouldn't have minded a glass. It was all he could do to keep his mind off the pain and just wait for the beginning of the end.
Rain was a stereotypical thing indeed. It often prefaced events of cliched origins and it had no problems living up to societal expectations in regards to its many different functions. In literature, rain was often indicative of a tragic scene either occurring or just about to do so. In film and television, rain was often used for more powerful, hard-hitting scenes that required the kind of visceral, visually impressive editing and transition that brought the term "award-winning" to many a creative work. In this case however, it was the reality of the situation that stood out. On this particular night, the rain that pummeled the five bodies beneath the sky was going to be unique. This was the night that the myth of the Guardians was finally going to graduate from whispering rumors to an absolute truth. Varrina Terry, at the least, was going to make sure of that.
A stone cold expression on her face, Varrina ignored the pelting of water drops and trudged through knee-high blades of wilted grass. Nothing so insignificant as rain was going to ruin this moment now. Too many years had been invested into this journey to let a little mud force an unnecessary lull. Besides, she had been prepared for a day like this. Old denim jeans stuffed themselves into solid-colored hiking boots under a white t-shirt which hid under a lightweight, black jacket which hid under a heavier purple hoodie. With her hood pulled up over a mess of soaked hair and contacts in place of glasses, Varrina's focus remained tight on the old church building that grew ever closer. It was a thing of irony for the truth of the world to lay hidden in that kind of building, but those thoughts weren't worth thinking at the moment.
As the group finally managed to reach the underside of the canopied wooden doors, Varrina pulled off her hood and immediately remembered the heft in the small of her back. She wasn't personally a fan of weaponry, but at least one person had to live to tell this tale to the public, right? Not even turning to face the group, eccentric tendencies kicked in and Varrina began quickly etching notes into a small black journal. "The moment is here.... O-our time is now." She said outloud. This was her way of addressing the group as a whole when she got excited. It had happened many times before, but this was a much more subdued excitement than in the past. The truth was that fear had gripped the heart of the dedicated cultist, even in the seconds before all her ramblings, speeches, and declarations would be backed up.
Breathing deeply for a moment, Varrina pushed open the doors and immediately stepped inside along with the rest of the group. A musky smell filled the air and an incomplete darkness curled around a trail of deep crimson, eventually leading to a slumped figure against the wall. It looked like the shape of a human from afar, but Varrina didn't give that any thought. She knew what she had come here for, regardless of the rest of the group. Her giddy nature began to take over and she started losing herself in a moment that slowly engulfed her entire mentality. Instinctively, she reached for and brandished the .22 caliber pistol she'd been provided with earlier that day. She held the weight at her side, her arm loose and enslaved to the power of the heft in her right hand. Eyes glazed over and a slight smirk twisting onto her face, Varrina began an excruciatingly slow drag towards the figure.
It would take the another member of the group to stop her impulsive behavior, as it often did, but in this moment of victory, Varrina had only one thought in mind.
It was time to begin the chaos.