Post by CaptainNips on Nov 11, 2014 19:04:04 GMT -5
Mikhail was somewhere else. Barren, cold, the wind whistled through the broken branches. Amber leaves falling to imprint on shattered gravestones, or falling to remain innumerable on the autumn floor. No... it was winter. The ever-rising chill told him that. Everything was an illusion, finite and still until something else shoved it off the cliff of reality. One thought, one action, a brutal chain. There was no escape from it. No matter how many steps he took on that gravel pathway he knew what lie behind him. What iron had been strapped to his shoulders. All he could do was walk on. Look among the stoic memorials of dead humans and dead trees. Of squandered hopes and dreams just left to die in the dust. Yes... the ash; the ash still lingered. A pestilence, a constant remainder of destruction. It was death itself... it choked, it buried, almost seeking to taint whatever was left behind in a vile attempt at survival. Survival. That was all that remained. The only thing left to stand between him and death. That was why he walked.
Walking towards only God knows what; if He hadn't been killed altogether as well. Mikhail took each step like he walked on the moon, time slowing if he even attempted a train of thought. The graveyard's light was low, the sun setting behind clouds of ash. The wind... surprisingly, was clear. Pure, safe. He tore off his mask, let all that fine air go through his nostrils, and felt alive; despite the hellscape ruin that surrounded him. For once he could feel it, relish in the cool embrace of the dashing cold. He was no longer just a survivor, but a human being.
A sound. His head darted, weapon rising immediately. It came again. The crisp rising of dirt, a shuffling of metal meeting earth. He went towards it, the sound going on, remaining to linger behind a tangle of bush and bramble. he pushed through it, passing by the mausoleum, the steady rows of graves. To stop at a tree, a torn noose hanging from the branch. Below it, a thin figure worked, shoveling dirt and more dirt to form. A gravestone beside it. "You! Who are you?" The figure didn't answer, shoveling, the wind seeming carry the faint murmurs of his voice. Repeating. "Who are you? What is this?" Mikhail had grown enraged, an unknown spark the catalyst to his anger. Striding forth he grabbed the shoulder of the being, only to be pushed back and grappled in return with a surprisingly strong arm. It turned. "It's time... my son."
Fear, stricken bewilderment. "Father?" Hollow eyes and cheeks, he was the very image, the carcass, of death itself. He looked down to the gravestone, the words still crookedly inscribed: Mikhail Zukov. Soon, he felt the air shift. Other figures had risen, dark and foreboding, forming a ring around the two. The grave. "It is time," came the chanting words, the circle slowly enclosing to wrap him totally in death's embrace. Struggling under the grip of his Father's corpse, Mikhail shot frantically... the bullets fazed through the dead like they were air. "It is time." The man was taken, and up close he saw them. saw them all. Every face, every person of his past that he believed had fallen to death's cold touch. He saw them all... even Nadya. Struggling, his arms through through leathery grips and sunken limbs, there was no stopping it. Thrown into the grave, screaming, where the light was slowly blotted out... and he was buried alive.
He woke.
Mikhail rose as if expecting an enemy to rise in return. Bowie knife lunged forward, cold sweat was running down the side of his face. But there was nothing. Nothing but the nightmare he had woken back into again and again, for nearly all his life. The small room was silent, the crackling of the now dying fire being the only audible noise. Shadows dance and played with the flames on the concrete floor, even the darkest corners appearing to bear some sort of mystery. There was tension, no safety was ever found in this parts. Not in the Undercity.
The Stalker's breaths heaved, and he looked to the side... wondering if his new-found partner had yet awoken.
Walking towards only God knows what; if He hadn't been killed altogether as well. Mikhail took each step like he walked on the moon, time slowing if he even attempted a train of thought. The graveyard's light was low, the sun setting behind clouds of ash. The wind... surprisingly, was clear. Pure, safe. He tore off his mask, let all that fine air go through his nostrils, and felt alive; despite the hellscape ruin that surrounded him. For once he could feel it, relish in the cool embrace of the dashing cold. He was no longer just a survivor, but a human being.
A sound. His head darted, weapon rising immediately. It came again. The crisp rising of dirt, a shuffling of metal meeting earth. He went towards it, the sound going on, remaining to linger behind a tangle of bush and bramble. he pushed through it, passing by the mausoleum, the steady rows of graves. To stop at a tree, a torn noose hanging from the branch. Below it, a thin figure worked, shoveling dirt and more dirt to form. A gravestone beside it. "You! Who are you?" The figure didn't answer, shoveling, the wind seeming carry the faint murmurs of his voice. Repeating. "Who are you? What is this?" Mikhail had grown enraged, an unknown spark the catalyst to his anger. Striding forth he grabbed the shoulder of the being, only to be pushed back and grappled in return with a surprisingly strong arm. It turned. "It's time... my son."
Fear, stricken bewilderment. "Father?" Hollow eyes and cheeks, he was the very image, the carcass, of death itself. He looked down to the gravestone, the words still crookedly inscribed: Mikhail Zukov. Soon, he felt the air shift. Other figures had risen, dark and foreboding, forming a ring around the two. The grave. "It is time," came the chanting words, the circle slowly enclosing to wrap him totally in death's embrace. Struggling under the grip of his Father's corpse, Mikhail shot frantically... the bullets fazed through the dead like they were air. "It is time." The man was taken, and up close he saw them. saw them all. Every face, every person of his past that he believed had fallen to death's cold touch. He saw them all... even Nadya. Struggling, his arms through through leathery grips and sunken limbs, there was no stopping it. Thrown into the grave, screaming, where the light was slowly blotted out... and he was buried alive.
He woke.
Mikhail rose as if expecting an enemy to rise in return. Bowie knife lunged forward, cold sweat was running down the side of his face. But there was nothing. Nothing but the nightmare he had woken back into again and again, for nearly all his life. The small room was silent, the crackling of the now dying fire being the only audible noise. Shadows dance and played with the flames on the concrete floor, even the darkest corners appearing to bear some sort of mystery. There was tension, no safety was ever found in this parts. Not in the Undercity.
The Stalker's breaths heaved, and he looked to the side... wondering if his new-found partner had yet awoken.