[ℨ] Luis Bacalov
I have no idea what it is, but it sure as hell ain't no ordinary girl, and it's trying to kill me. I feel zero guilt about stabbing it again, which I proceed to do.
Or try to.
Thrusting forward, I shove the iron bar at the little bitch. It jerks to the side, and takes the pole in the side of the chest, pushing it back a bit, and sending it stumbling a little. It/she/whatever recovers fast, grabs the pry bar, and yanks it towards itself, sending me right into JESUS CHRIST THOSE CLAWS FUCK
I drop into the ground, narrowly missing a swipe from those things. Instead, there's a screech of metal as she/it slashes at a pipe overhead. There are deep cuts in the metal, and a tiny, high pressure spray coming out of where it nicked the pipe hardest.
Okay, that might work.
Scrambling to my feet, I tug the pry bar from its hand, then whip around, and smash it down at the pipe as hard as I can. It clangs, and the bare metal pole in my hand thrums along with it, and does that weird shaky metal thing. It falls out of my hands, clanging on the floor.
...Well, I'm fucked.
The girl-monster behind me lunges, screaming at me. The noise bounces around the small tunnel walls, making it louder and more echoing on top of being loud and echo-y already. It kind of fucking hurts, to say the least. My ears are left ringing as I drop to the floor, clutching them.
It turns out to save my life.
Her hand— easier to say her and be done with it, until I see it in better light —thrusts forward, intending to stab me in the face or rip out my throat or whatever, and slashes down. Instead of opening me up, she cuts open the pipe right beyond where my head was.
A high-pressure blast of water shoots out, blowing her hand back, and catching her square in the face. Now it's her turn to recoil and falter, clutching at her soon-to-be-bruised and soaking face.
There's a reason they used fire hoses for crowd control.
My ears still hurt like three kinds of hell (ringing, thudding, and more fucking ringing
), but I know an opportunity when I see one. I grab the pry bar once more, and swing it at the girl's head. It connects with a solid crack, and the bar shakes again in my hands, though not as badly.
She falls to the floor, crying out in pain, but already trying to push herself back to her feet. Not today, bitch.
Again, I swing. Again, she falls.
I smash the bar into her head, again. And again. And again.
She doesn't get up.
I stand there, shaking, trembling, covered with sweat, dust, and water from the edge of the spray. The girl lies in a heap, and isn't going anywhere any time soon. Or maybe ever again. I don't know.
Holy fuck. I just killed someone.
A monster of some kind, yeah. And one who was trying to kill me, too. I feel almost horrible, but I know that if I hadn't, it'd be me lying there, and probably not in one piece.
Still, it feels... weird. Not weird-good, and not necessarily weird-bad. Just... really trippy-weird. Shouldn't I be agonizing over the morality of my actions?
...Man, fuck that; she was trying to kill me.
I'd always avoided ever going down the path that lead to becoming another black gangbanger sort of punk kid, and right up there on the list of things to steer clear of on that path is killing someone. I don't think I'm any further down that path than before, though. This wasn't some clerk at a liquor store, or a rival gang member, or a cop.
This was a goddamn monster.
A thought wanders through my mind, then screams at the top of its lungs: Why in fuck is a monster trying to kill me?!
On its heels comes one of those stray thoughts you have in the middle of huge amounts of stress, which is: And why does it look like a little girl?
I don't know. I don't ...I have no idea what's going on, here.
I realize I'm still standing over her, holding the bar. This... would look bad if I was seen like this. Really, really bad.
Damn, my fingerprints are all over this, aren't they?
I drop it like a hot potato, and it splashes into the growing pool of water. It's time to get out of here. I don't know what I'm going to do, but I need to get the hell out
Splashing through the water, I go back down the tunnel about ten or fifteen feet until I'm back at the ladder. I hurriedly climb up, making sure to dry my hands off before ascending. Wouldn't do to have my hands slip off and send me sailing.
I make my way back up, back towards the surface. It's not safer, since that's where all this shit started, but at least I've got more places to run to. I really don't know how well that's going to help, but... it's not underground, and that's got to be better.
I look around as I reach street level. Nobody around..."No? Good. Hauling myself out, I immediately make for my car. I'm halfway there when I stop and look back towards the construction site.
I don't want Frilly Fancypants coming after me any time soon. Sure, I smashed her head in, but... I dunno. Monsters, man. Is this the "put enough bullets into it and it dies" kind that you can kill with enough force, or is this the "only a true hero armed with the magic sword of his ancestors can slay the beast" kind? There's no standard of any kind, and it's not like I have any mythology to go off of, here. What kind of monsters look like little girls? Nothing I know of, for sure.
Best not to take chances.
Hustling back towards the site, I find the manhole cover, and drag it back over the top of the opening, only to find that there are bolts that go over it to keep it in place. I think I saw something like that over... where. Somewhere. The bolts are here, attached by a light chain to keep them with the manhole. But where's the wrench? It'd be an awfully big wrench, so it should stand out.
Maybe it's at the truck? That sounds familiar.
I look around for the truck, and see about three similar-looking vehicles, all with "City of Los Ojos -- Municipal Utilities" on the doors. Well, hell. I don't remember which one had it, which would I guess be the one I got the prybar from. Panic sort of blurred that.
Going around to each of them in turn, I finally find it in the third truck. I'm only able to tell because of the missing pry bar. It's nowhere in the bed of the truck, though, so where did I see it?
...Oh. Lying against the side of the rear bumper. Dedicated workmen, these.
Shaking my head, I grab the wrench, and jog over to the manhOh Jesus fuck, the cover is gone
There's a clink, clink from behind me, and it sounds an awful lot like those bolts might, if gently banging against a large metal plate.
I have no words to express how grossly overfucked I am.
Without even looking, I throw myself to the side, and go into a roll, coming up with the wrench held in front of me, as if it were going to help.
It doesn't help, because she's much, much too fast.
There's a flash of what looks like blue hair before I'm smacked in the face with the manhole cover, swung by a hand with a strength no goddamn little girl on Earth has EVER had. The wrench goes flying, and I'm knocked over and back, spun a little by the force of the impact. I land on my face, and merciful God, it hurts like nothing else. Not the belt, not the hand, not the cane, nothing. Freddy Kreugirl's packing some serious muscle somewhere.
My head, not just my ears, are ringing with the force of impact, and I can't even stand up straight. Arms are all fucked; legs, nothing. My vision is blurred, but I can see her toss aside the manhole cover, knocking over several cones.
Then she comes for me, and there's nothing I can do.
Up close, I can make out red parts among the blue of her hair. Well, at least she bleeds. That's good to know, but not very useful right now, as I think I'm fucked harder than... somebody that gets fucked hard. I can't even curse right, I'm so messed up.
Yanking me up by the collar of my tan t-shirt, she drags me along, growling and swearing under her breath. Ticked you off, did I? Too bad I didn't pick you off; only five letters short. I blame Vanna. It's funny; her words don't echo anymore or do that twisty float-around-me thing like before.
When I realize where she's taking me, my arms fumble and claw at hers and at the ground, but her grip is far too strong, and I'm far too screwed up to even make a decent try. We arrive in front of the manhole, and she hauls me up, one-handed. I think about begging for my life, but I already know she won't do it, so I say nothing. It's not out of any desire to surrender and accept my fate, but just logical thought.
Instead, I look at her, focusing as best I can, and clear my mouth, which feels thick and heavy.
"I'll find you, asshole," I tell her her with as much defiant venom as I can muster, and weakly flip the monster the bird.
She looks perplexed, then sneers and says once again in that broken, shifting not-echo, "N. ot bloo-dddd-y llllike. ly. y."
The girl-thing pitches me foward, and down the open shaft. I try making a grab for the rungs, but my fingers only find smooth concrete sides. Clever girl.
The ground rushes closer, and I find myself irritated with... myself. Never should have come back to lock her in. Honestly though, I don't think it'd have mattered. Even if I hauled ass, the closest exit from the store's parking lot passes right by the construction site. About the time I pulled out, she'd probably have come barrelling through the windshield, or slung something through it and skewered me.
Probably should have kept smashing her head in.
Because God enjoys irony, it's about a the moment I think that last though that my head hits the concrete floor. There's a sickening crack, and a lot of pain.
Lots of a lot.
It hurts to move.
Nothing seems to be moving, but I can feel the pain everywhere.
My head feels warm.
Nice and warm.
Just a little rest is fine, right?
I shouldn't, but it hurts, and I can't do anything else. Too much black, closing in, and I can see less and less.
[ ] Shallow
[ ] Deep
If you held out and placed your bets on today despite my warning, I guess you're in luck.
In other news, oh god so many people updating. It is a great and wonderful thing, and I am clapping my hands gleefully like a child.
When 20 out of 40 of the first two pages of Google Image results for "maintenance tunnel" are composed of game screenshots, it really says something bad about either game design, game cliches, or that we (and game designers) believe these things exist everywhere and that they are perfectly valid avenues of travel, much like movies have done with air ducts. I get the impression we largely don't know shit about architecture other than what we see in what we watch or play. Feels bad, man. >>117609
Summertime Killer is indeed it. Sharp as always~ >>117565
Your guesses for the meanings were exactly correct. >>117570
Oh you. >>117596
...Yeah. It's got a few twists. >>117607
I believe he may have actually said that Civics and Accords are the most commonly stolen ones because they're so easy to break into/steal. That sounds more like it, so I probably misquoted him the first time. I'm really just happy to have it back, though. >>117617
So everyone in South and downtown Phoenix is most likely a felon? I will keep this in mind.
I blame it on the heat.