Scream...by aeon
He looks around the dimly lit corridor, walks forward into the gloom of the
night, one hand resting on his pistol, one twitching absentmindedly.
Obvious, but intentionally so. Anyone who'd mess with a man visibly carrying
a gun was going to be trouble anyway, so you might as well be prepared. He
turns the corner and walks three doors down, just past the bar, walking up
the steps, onto the Skywalk, and down several more blocks without breaking
stride. He stops before a wooden door. The door won't open. He knows it's
locked. He can hear the guy in the room locking it, ten minutes ago.
His mind moves almost of its own accord, whirling, seeking. He can feel the
fear inside, and so he massages it, intensifies it. Then he throws his
shoulder into the door and prays it's as old as it looks. It is. The door
flies inward, shattering.
He steps through, into a hall. Something moves in his peripheral vision. A
noise. But he's already turning, aiming. There is another noise as his gun
vomits once, then silence in his mind as the guy's brain stops transmitting
signals across the room and starts transmitting grey splotches across the
length of the hall.
Obstacle overcome.
Still walking, not breaking stride, he reaches the stairs and walks up to
the third floor, turning left down the hallway, listening to the buzz inside
each room he passes, the fear. He tunes it out and moves onward.
Fourth door. 307. He knocks. No answer. He knocks again. No answer.
Five seconds later he picks himself off the floor and picks splinters out of
his hair, dimly remembering leaping to the side before the door blew up. It
scares him sometimes that his mind thinks faster than he does. But then he
realizes that in cases like this, it would be scarier if it didn't.
He steps over the shattered remains of the door and wanders into an empty
room. No pulse, no signals, nothing. The apartment is empty.
A noise at the window. A noise in his mind. He realizes he's made a mistake
as his mind explodes with static, and he screams in pain, in rage, fighting
back. This is exactly why he did not want to bring the gun. His finger
twitches, obeying another, and he unwillingly empties the gun into the
floor. But his legs are his own, still, so he ignores his spasming arm and
lunges across the room, mind burning. As the figure in the window raises its
arms, a pistol visible through the sheer curtains, 170 pounds of mass slams
into it. Both men tumble out the window. Not very wise, but then, wisdom
isn't really an option. Not when your mind is on fire and someone's pointing
a gun at your head.
Two hit the ground. One rises. He does a quick check, mind awhirl. Pain in
left arm. Broken humerus. Tingling in right arm, as his body regains control
of its own limb. Sprained left ankle. Severe bruises to entire left side.
Damage severe. He needs medical aid. But at least his mind is whole again.
Mission terminated.
He stands to gain his bearings, and turns to head for the Ambulatory center.
Movement from ahead catches his eye only a moment after his mind picks them
up. Carpe Noctems. They see him and move out into the street to surround
him. He really doesn't want to fight them. Not here. Not now.
"Hey, you're outta your turf, aintcha, you stinkin' ment ..."
He really has no time for this.
The ganger is as good as dead before he hits the ground, his mind on fire,
his nervous system running wild. He might live, but that wouldn't be a good
idea in his case.
He's misfired a little bit, but that was partly his intent. A half second
after his assault, a second and a third ganger drop also, suffering similar
fates. But then he's in for it, as the rest of the gang realizes what's
happened. They charge him. Two more suddenly forget how to walk and drop to
their knees, limbs bubbling in pain. But that's it. They finally get him on
the ground, and once the boots start landing, he can't focus, can only curl
up and scream. Left ankle broken, now. Shoulder dislocated. He sees dirty
chrome flash, feels a pain in his stomach. Abdominal wounds are always
messy. He kicks upward in vain, feels a squish and hears a scream. He gets
kicked in the head for his effort and the number of punks doubles.
His mind screams, and he realizes with certainty that the savant, his
target, was one of theirs.
The savant who he has failed to kill.
Pain, pain. His mind refuses to let go. His hyperactive nervous system is
amplifying everything, refusing to let him slip into unconsciousness. He
can't black out. He can't do anything but hurt. It hurts to move. It hurts
to think. So he listens instead.
Shouting. Laughing. Snapping. His own screaming. Then, unexpectedly, four
sharp cracks in the distance, off target. A siren sounds somewhere and
finally, finally, the punks scatter. A squeal and a slam and some hissing. A
figure above him. A voice. He doesn't kick this one, only because he can't.
The voice he hears is young but mature, surrounded by clicks and hums.
It sounds like hell. Well, like hell probably sounds, he thinks.
He's wrong.
Four strong hands lift him onto a stretcher, but not all of him makes it.
Things are falling out of him, things that shouldn't be moving. It's hard to
imagine that things that smell so bad are coming from inside. A needle,
another, but he's still screaming. Someone asks him his name, but he can't
answer. Every shot is another flame, pain atop pain. Fingers at his temples,
prodding, and he realizes he cannot see. Through the wall of pain, he points
this out, and is informed that he has no longer has eyes. This upsets him.
He struggles a lot. They stick more needles in him, to no avail. His mind is
on overdrive, refusing to shut down, fighting a threat that is no longer
there.
And then he realizes that the threat is, indeed, there. Beside him. The
ambulance has picked up two victims. And the man beside him is laughing.
Laughing. Forcing his body to scream. Forcing his mind to suffer. Burning
him alive with pain.
He screams, tries to tell them that they have to kill the other, have to
leave him behind, but of course they can't do this. And so he just screams.
He screams till his throat is raw, screams as they take him into the
hospital, screams as they try to sew his insides shut, screams as they tell
him everything is going to be all right, screams as his target lies beside
him, laughing.
His body dies screaming.
His mind follows.
