ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴅᴛᴇᴀᴍ ᴏғ ʜᴀᴅʀɪᴇʟ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hadrielmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hadriel_logs2018-12-26 11:06 am
hadrielmods) wrote in hadriel_logs2018-12-26 11:06 am
Event Log: The Stampede
Who: All characters participating in the event
What: The event log for Stampede event
Where: All over the city
When: December 26th-December 28th
Warnings: None
What: The event log for Stampede event
Where: All over the city
When: December 26th-December 28th
Warnings: None
There's a rumbling sound in the air early in the afternoon on December 26th. Whether you're new in town or you've seen it all, something like this hasn't happened before. Is it an earthquake? It feels kind of like a small one, and that might be endurable if not for the sudden snarling and gnashing of teeth!
As it turns out, these yet-unnamed apex predators are overrunning the city, ignoring their previous apprehension to barrel right through anything- or anyone- that stands in their way. Seemingly spooked by something, they are aggressive and violent and won't hesitate to tear anyone they meet to pieces... after trampling them underfoot, of course. They're so large and muscular that they may even take a few portions of buildings with them- how would you like to see one of these monsters crashing through your living room?
At least it's only these weird mammoths, though... right?► This log covers December 26th-December 28th.
► Please tag headers of threads with content warnings where they apply
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!
► If you get squished, please let us know here.
one
The massive Freelancer is standing a short distance behind Ephemera, fully armored with the Brute Shot in hand. Judging by the blood dripping from its blade, Maine's been busy. But the sight of familiar-but-unfamiliar armor caught his attention.
And now here he stands, seven-foot-four and splattered with fresh blood, looking curiously at the unknown figure.
Stealth has never been a strength of Maine's, so he's unsurprised that he's been noticed. However, responding to the other man is ... a little involved. Maine can't exactly call out a question. So instead, he moves. Walks until he enters the other soldier's line of sight, still at a slight distance — although it's less distance than another person might give a potential combatant.
Maine's picky about his personal space, but he's also at his most deadly in close quarters. For him, the distance is ideal.
Once he's reasonably sure the other man can see him, Maine takes a hand from his weapon and points to Ephemera, then cocks his head to the side in question. An attempt to ask, "who're you?" ]
no subject
Once, not so long ago, Ephemera would have just lunged for the man and fuck the consequences. Even better, he would have been preparing for it ever since he knew another Freelancer came through the Door. Would've set up traps, contingencies, something to put them both on equal footing because Agent Maine is fucking huge, even bigger than Crow was, and Ephemera isn't stupid or angry enough to think he can take someone like that down in melee combat. But those were different times. He had a different name.
Now he's trying to be better. It works until it doesn't.
He grits his teeth. Takes a breath and lets it go, thankful for his helmet. It keeps his face hidden so he can work through the anger on his own instead of letting the whole damn world in on it. ]
I take it Washington didn't explain?
[ Guess not. There were probably other concerns. ]
We've met. Or we're going to. I don't know when you're from, exactly. My squad used to run with the Insurrection.
[ Ephemera's voice is low and cool. ]
Freelancer killed 'em all. I used to take that real personally.
no subject
Never been any good at acknowledging weakness. Better to just push through.
Fortunately, this stampede has provided the brutish Freelancer with a much-needed outlet for his rage. "Fortunately," because it means he doesn't immediately move to attack the moment he hears 'Insurrection.' Instead, he stiffens, chin lifting slightly in surprise. Looks at the man more closely, evaluating him as a threat rather than a stranger.
He doesn't recognize the voice. Doesn't recognize the armor. But the color scheme...
He remembers the sniper who aimed at Carolina. Remembers the woman who was too fast for him. Remembers that sleeveless fuck who shot him in the throat.
Maine lowers his chin, breath coming out in a hiss between his teeth that barely sounds human. Is that the squad this man's talking about? If so...
... Well. If so, they're apparently dead.
Unaware that he deals the killing blow to no less than four of Ephemera's squadmates, the massive Freelancer snorts in contempt. Good fucking riddance. ]
no subject
Lets it bleed into his voice. Sharp and cruel. ]
I bet it hurts when you swallow. I bet it really fucking hurt where he shot you.
[ He stands. Tips his head back, watching Maine. Doesn't reach for his weapons, though he wants to. He really fucking wants to. ]
We got an understanding, me and Washington. But you insult them, any of them, you so much as think their names, I'l set you on fire and cook you inside your pretty armor, Freelancer. And believe me, that'll hurt more.
no subject
Because it does hurt when Maine swallows. Not physically, perhaps; physically, it's merely a discomfort. But that discomfort and wrongness and loss dig at his mind, gouging holes in the psyche of a man who thought he was indomitable. A man who has thrown everything he is into becoming strong enough to defeat his enemies.
They're the same holes that, eventually, Sigma would come to fill. The same pain and loss that enabled the A.I. to begin transforming Agent Maine into the Meta.
Maine would like to snap that he doesn't know their names. That he doesn't care about their names. But he can't. All he can do is growl through bared teeth, low and inhuman, as he tightens his grip on his weapon.
Fun fact: as far as Maine's concerned, he outranks Agent Washington. The other man is his friend, but he's still a rookie in Maine's mind. Carolina is another matter entirely — but an understanding with Wash?
Yeah, Maine doesn't give a shit.
But before the Freelancer can move to strike, something big slams into the opposite side of the wall, sending cracks shooting up from the point of impact. Maine's eyes jerk toward it as he steps back, away from both the wall and the other soldier. ]
no subject
Good, Ephemera thinks viscously. Cruelty is something he's learned. He might not have started out the way but he went by a different name once and that man knew the power of pressing down on an open wound. And sometimes he falls back into the old ways, like putting on another suit of armor. Even after a pause, no matter how long, it fits just fine.
He's not like Rodriguez was, doesn't kill things just for the pleasure of watching them break. Not yet. But sometimes the pain cuts in sharp and deep and he can't imagine doing anything but spreading the sensation. Making the rest of the universe bleed for the loss, for leaving him alive when his family is gone. Someone ought to suffer for that. Given time, someone will. He doesn't particularly care why. There's violence in the air and he can already hear the flames cracking.
Someone needs to burn. Ephemera imagines he can smell it and shivers all over. Meat and melted armor. It feels right. Feels inevitable.
The ground rumbles and something heavy smashes into the wall just as Ephemera's activating his flame throwers.
He glances back, frowning, but doesn't move. Why bother dodging? He'll survive it. ]
Get out of here, Freelancer.
[ Ephemera's voice has gone hard. He feels insane, drowning in all this goddamn loss, and Maine is right. There. Breathing.
You promised, motherfucker, you promised--
Do better. Drake wouldn't like it. ]
I really want to hurt you.
[ But he promised. And he tries not to lie these days. ]
no subject
But he doesn't kill for pleasure. Doesn't derive any particular enjoyment from the inflicting pain. There's no voice in his head egging him on and whispering all the creative ways he could hurt someone. He doesn't toy with his enemies; he just destroys them.
This man in front of him — this Insurrectionist; this enemy — is someone he needs to destroy. Someone who poses a threat. Someone who's pissed the fury-filled Freelancer right the fuck off.
That comment smarted, indeed. Crawled right under Maine's skin and injected the memory of vulnerability into his veins. Hissed his weakness in his ears.
The enemy wants to hurt him. The feeling is intensely mutual. And Maine doesn't have anyone for whom he's trying to be "better." Wouldn't change who he is — the anger; the aggression; the thrill of combat that his brain is made for — even if he did.
But Maine also has no intention of being crushed by a wall. He knows that he could survive it. He always survives. A bullet to the chest and nine to the neck couldn't stop him; a collapsing wall sure as fuck can't. But that doesn't mean he wants to get crushed.
He looks back to the enemy. Wonders if he can kill the red-and-gray fucker before the wall crumbles. Then whatever's on the other side hits the wall again, widening existing cracks and sending debris tumbling down.
Dammit.
Retreating is something that Maine is honestly really fucking bad at. He can do it if ordered, of course. But on his own? It goes against every instinct he has. All the things inside of him that are screaming fight. So that first step back is a struggle, and one Maine wins only by assuring himself that, if the collapsing wall (or whatever's hitting it) doesn't do the job, he can finish it later.
Maine's not a sadist. But he's not a forgiving man, either.
With effort, Maine draws back. He retreats. He leaves the enemy to whatever's coming through the wall. And if it doesn't finish the man off? Maine will hunt him down and kill him, later. ]