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Author Topic: Cut Scenes  (Read 1880 times)

Bishop

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Re: Cut Scenes
« Reply #15 on: April 26, 2014, 07:50:03 PM »

Jumpsuits.  White jumpsuits.  Everywhere.

The clean room was about the size of a football field, yet completely below ground - shielded from the light of the sun, and, hopefully, protected against the Flux.  No dust nor furniture anywhere that anyone of the hundreds of men could see, their white suits blending into the white floor and white walls and the white ceiling with hanging white lights while white fan blades spun to draw the air into and out of the oversized bunker.

It was a good idea, but perhaps futile.  Hank watched as the others remained motionless in line - everyone's thoughts running miles a minute but no one saying a single word... and no one looking at each other.

No one but Hank.

Two lines of people standing there.  Two lines of people with nothing but the sound of their breath and the buffeting of the overhead fans plucking the air out of the room.

There was a sudden slamming of a door behind them that caused everyone in the right line - including Hank - to jump.  A rush of a sudden breeze brought the smell of industry, soil, and cigar smoke into the room, yet only the right line bothered to notice - sniffing at the air as they resumed their stare forward into the cranium of the next volunteer.

One set of footsteps advanced from the back, evenly paced but aggressive, as if marching.  No one moved.  The figure moved along the right side of the left line, never pausing or stopping until it reached the far end of the room before making an immediate about-face.  The figure, after examining both lines, turned again and marched out a front door that was hidden among the white tile walls.

The fans suddenly stopped.  The buffeting was suddenly replaced with the gentle whistling of something pushing air in... but nothing was taking air out.  Soon, coughing was heard, breaking the eerie silence between the lines.  A moment later, bodies were thumping both in front of and behind Hank.  He began to feel the tickling in his throat as some wispy, invisible tendrils tried to enter him through his nostrils and mouth.  Leaning to one side to inspect his line, Hank noticed more white jumpsuits were bending and peeking or coughing... and collapsing.  Behind him, people began to clamour for air, desperate pleas for help or fresh air.

Hank looked on, his own lungs desperate for fresh breath as he began to cough against the sweetly deceiving poison that was finally taking hold of him.  He felt helpless as he watched his line - one by one - collapse and convulse.

When Hank was the last one standing in his line, the darkness was already at the corners of his eyes, driving fear into his imagination.  Were they dead?  Were they dying?  How long before he knew for himself if they were asleep, or being exterminated.

Before he could draw any conclusions, Hank had fallen to one knee, his hands around his throat trying to pry into it to open it up enough to draw fresh breath.  As his eyes watered into tears, he looked up and searched the room for the source of the sick, twisted perversion that was likely watching the situation unfold.  When he did so, Hank noticed that the left line - every single member, every civilian, every white jumpsuit - had continued to remain motionless and standing.

Hank couldn't understand how that was possible.  Were they holograms?  Were they given immunity to the poison in the air?  Was it a test of obedience?  Was he imagining everything?  ...In desperation, as his line lay choking and gasping desperately, Hank crawled away from his line as quickly as he dared, the veil of darkness creeping ever further over his eyes, his ears deafened by the pulsing blood rushing through his veins.

Inch by inch, Hank crawled his way directly across the room to the left line.  The moans, gasping, and other sounds of struggling desperation had subsided to where only his gasping remained.  He rose to his knees and dove, grasping the pantleg of the closest person to him... but the person didn't move.  No head turn, no acknowledgement to his presence.  The jumpsuit recoiled slightly at the pulling of the fabric, but there was no reaction to Hank's desperate pleas and groping.

Then the darkness took him...
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The soul of a man does not always reside within the body of a man, but rather in the work that he does.

Tschel23

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Re: Cut Scenes
« Reply #16 on: September 06, 2014, 03:13:17 PM »

It was a few months before she was rescued by Campbell and Draupnir03, Michael and her brothers had fended off some mutated raiders a while back, but they must have decided there was something valuable on the old Went property, because they came back. They killed all her brothers except the oldest, Kurt, who they carted off with them and then turned their attentions to Michael. She shot one, took two down with her adjustable wrench and a hell of a left hook but still there were too many and they overpowered her. She was beaten, used, and left for dead never once giving them the satisfaction of a single cry for help.

Unfortunately for the raiders, Michael was too stubborn to die. She packed up what few possessions and tools she had and burned everything but the garage that stored her beloved Anette - a 1964 Chevelle Malibu SS with a 327CC 350HP V-8 engine - she could always sleep in the car.

An hour. It had been an hour since the violence, the sounds, the screaming and yells had stopped. Bloody, filthy, bruised and abused Michael opened her swollen eyes. They'd be blackened, she knew, from when her nose broke. Pushing up to a seated position took everything she had, but she managed. She reached up a hand, knuckles battered and bloodied to survey the damage to her nose. With a single quick movement, she reset it. She'd seen her brothers do it after they'd fought plenty of times. She hadn't meant to make any sound, but a grunt escaped her parched, raw throat.

After allowing herself a moment to absorb the events of the evening, she forced herself to stand ignoring the stiffened ache of her muscles and set to work dragging bodies into their ramshackle home. Brothers and attackers alike, she dragged them into the house and piled them up. She trudged the property, making sure everyone was gathered up and then dragged a few possessions out of the house. Using some of her gran'daddy's precious alcohol/auto fuel "white lightning" she drenched the bodies, then splashed the walls of the house with the potent brew and threw in a lit match.

Michael could feel the heat of the house fire from across the field where she stood with her back against the garage storing her most prized possession. She slid across the wall, using it to hold her upright before stumbling through the doorway and finally, curling up on the back seat of her beloved Annette. Finally, silently, the tears came.
« Last Edit: September 07, 2014, 10:38:38 AM by Tschel23 »
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Tschel23

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Re: Cut Scenes
« Reply #17 on: March 12, 2017, 02:13:44 PM »

The longest day. It finally was coming to an end. Their pilot - her friend - Joshua Campbell was dead, and there was nothing she could to about it. There was no closure. He had saved her life, and she was unable to return the favor. So many dead and so many more wounded, although she was among the latter, she knew the overwhelmed makeshift hospital could do nothing for her for some time anyway. Dragging herself back to her quarters for the first time since setting down her few possessions, she padded through the door and closed it silently behind her. Moving mechanically, she peeled off her clothes as she made for the small private bathroom. Dried sweat and still-sticky fluids make the process of undressing a chore, and she stops in the open archway to the bathroom to wrestle herself free. A few tubes still protruded from her flesh, but she paid them no mind.

Stepping under the shower-head brought it automatically to life. It sprayed lukewarm water at her, the preset temperature that was deemed acceptable to all, but it chilled her to the bone. Cuts, burns and the strange flaky flesh slowly taking over her body stung, itched and burned as she stood there, letting the water wash it all away. The drain in the floor hummed mundanely as it filtered the water and sent it back through the recycling system to be used again. Slowly, she collapsed onto the floor; her legs folding her feet under her as she silently tried to make sense of it all and failed miserably.

Behind her, an unnoticed gasp escaped Susan's lips. She'd come to check on the wisp of a woman, still feeling somewhat responsible for her after rescuing her from the odd vat of viscous goo that had drawn her in and punctured her in so many places with tubes and wiring. Susan had followed the trail of clothes to the bathroom and spotted the tiny curled form of Michael on the shower floor, eyes wide open but curled up on the floor. Blood was flowing freely from a few of Michael's wounds, reopened from the spray of warm water cascading over her. Without masking her steps, Susan approached the much smaller woman. "Michael...?"

Blinking, Michael's eyes remain unfocused. Her body begins to shiver and gooseflesh breaks out where her normal human skin still showed. Susan came closer, "Oh, darlin', here, let's git you fixed up." She bent, reaching for Michael, her own so much larger frame hulking over Michael's shivering form. A noise escaped Michael's throat. Was it a word? Susan couldn't be sure. Slowly, carefully she slid her arms under Michael's battered body, lifting her free of the shower, which automatically turned off.

Softly, her throat raw, Michael rasped, her accent strangely missing. "The machine. Wherever I ... was ... I was happy. At peace. I knew that everyone I cared about was all right. I knew it. Time didn't mean anything, nothing had form... but I was still me, you know? And I was warm and I was loved... and I was finished. Complete. I don't understand about dimensions or theology or any of ... but I think I was in heaven.
...
...
And now I'm not.
...
...
I was torn out of there. And everything here is bright and hard and violent... Everything I feel, everything I touch... this is Hell. Just getting through the next moment, and the one after that... knowing what I've lost ...
...
...
They can never know. Never."

Stunned, Susan holds the tiny form knowing that she was the cause of at least part of this agony. After a moment, she forces herself to move and places Michael on the edge of the bed, wrapping a towel around her. Pausing to look at the shivering form, Susan whispers, "I'm sorry, darlin', for what it's worth." Susan, not knowing if Michael was capable of taking care of herself toweled her dry, pulled on some clean clothes, and helped Michael to bed. Her hulking form paused as she smoothed the blanket around the smaller woman. Her mind made up, she slid beneath the blanket, curling protectively around the smaller form.
« Last Edit: March 12, 2017, 02:38:06 PM by Tschel23 »
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"Was that a guy? I can't tell."

'They have worlds out there, people that you wouldn't believe. But they do not have chocolate.'  John Crichton A Human Reaction: Farscape
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