|pRoj<ec>T_</fo>uR|
WHAT FOLLOWS: S1.E01.3
When
the first hot drop hit his face, he flinched in surprise as it burned
him and brushed it from his cheek before it had the chance to run
down it at all. He then ventured a brief glance up at the clouds, so
heavy with snow that they sagged below the tops of the massive
factory cranes to either side. The second drop hit his nose and he
brushed it off just as quickly, turning his face down and lowering
the brim of his hat. He pulled his weathered gloves a bit farther
onto his wrists, the greyish cards dangling from his coat sleeves –
three each – clattered together like cardboard wind-chimes. Then
the drops fell a bit faster, and the men around him began to shuffle
and close up their own clothes to keep the scalding raindrops from
working their way in.
The
policemen-soldiers had moved concrete partitions into the spaces
between the parked vans, using both to form a solid wall that fully
blocked all lanes of the highway. Their riot shields were propped
against the wall, ready to be heaved into place above it to form the
upper half of a taller wall, one that they would move and fluctuate
as they needed it to. It looked a bit as though they'd carved a
trench from concrete and plastic, an archery pit where knights in
suits of black silicon carbide and canvas armor would fire bolts of
lead and metal and ballistics, slugs with exploding arrowheads, at an
oncoming enemy.
By
now the Magicians would be dead, Foundation knew. They wouldn't be
able to fight Famine, and could never keep a thing like him confused
for long. The original plan had been to have them confront Famine
alongside the advance unit, but Famine had surprised him with its
ferocity. The advance unit had made contact too soon and it had taken
less than five minutes for them to be thoroughly dismantled,
completely obliterated, and Famine hadn't even set fire to the city.
Not that it meant anything; maybe Famine was just in a more focused
mindset than in the few instances the Project had observed it in the
past.
A
man began to boil off to the right, and Foundation turned his head
slowly to watch. The riot gear was melting into a slick black form
and the skin turned red and sagged; bones began to bend and a pungent
steam poured from expanding holes in the man's body. Foundation
looked away and directed his eyes back in the direction that Famine
would come, even as the boiling man began to emit plumes of flame and
a sick, searing gurgle that somehow held a tone of terror and dismay.
Nothing at all like any nightmare he'd ever dream, but maybe in the
next few weeks he'd dream it plenty, if he survived this. Monument
seemed to think he would not. Whatever calculations there were seemed
to conclude precisely with the demise of himself and all whom he led.
The
man on his right was some cross between a puddle of molten gore and a
pile of warped equipment, when the man on Foundation's left began the
same process of break down. It went faster this time; either Famine
was getting closer or he was simply growing impatient; the two were
not mutually exclusive. A tarp was thrown over the mess of a man to
his right and a policeman-soldier moved to fill the spot of the
fallen. If Famine wanted to, he could probably do away with them all
like this, one at a time. But Foundation was banking on the fact that
the beast was not that patient. There was an objective he was on his
way to achieve, and there was also a window of opportunity that would
be closing.
The
scalding drops began to fall faster now, a soft pattering sound
sitting like static behind the hissing and bubbling of the melting
man. Each drop steamed violently as it hit the ground and vanished in
an instant, leaving the pavement dry. This snowfall would have been
beautiful on any other night, but Famine was melting the flakes
before the even left the clouds. Foundation crouched and touched the
road; even through his gloved hand he could feel the heat. He glanced
about and saw the tires of the vans had begun to look wet and
bloated, melting slowly and being pushed outward by the air pressure
they held within. The riot shields had begun to bend under their own
weight.
One
policeman-soldier took the plastic face-guard off the front of his
helmet and cast it aside, the thing having warped to the point of
interfering with his sight. His skin had turned red like he'd put his
face into a fire. The air was drying out, and their eyes were
starting to sting. There was a burning sensation in their lungs with
every breath. There were convection currents on the face of the
highway, making it look like water, like the gray mask of a limitless
deep. There was a blanket of weight and despair upon them. There was
the tensing of muscles confused by the heat. There was the
determination to blood and there was the instinct to flee. There was
fear and fury, and finally there was Famine.
The
beast stood a hundred yards away, easily nine feet high and stark
black from head to toe. Unnaturally lean, it's neck was strangely
tall; its chest seemed empty of organs, room for naught but ribs and
spine. Its shoulders were sharp. Its arms hung long, down below the
knees of its legs. Its elbows were maybe three inches in diameter,
its wrists almost nonexistent, its hands and feet gruesomely
oversized and clawed. It stood with an unnatural lean, its center of
gravity off to one side so that the only thing holding it up were the
claws of its feet digging into the pavement and the tautness of its
improbable body. And there it stood, just stood.
And
Foundation felt its eyes on him.
He
narrowed his own eyes at thing, an expression of disappointment, and
gave the silent order, “Bury him in bullets.” The
policeman-soldiers responded without hesitation, with ferocity that
said they had been desperate to fire, and the blazing weapons sent a
furious led storm in the direction of the beast. The sounds of
gunfire rang oddly in the heated air, and refused to echo. They were
hollow and soulless, short lived like a flash of lightning with no
thunder behind.
Famine
took the hits, each bullet colliding against his body not even making
him flinch. He took them like an impenetrable mountain, like he
barely noticed he was being hit. Each time he was struck, there would
flare on his body an angry red flash, as the flick of fire and magma
behind chilling igneous formations. These red streaks faded slowly,
and the ferocity of that flame soon populated his body enough that
there was the unexpected definition of muscle and joints, horribly
thin-stretched tendons. And soon, his face; two eyes without pupils
or expression, and the simple crease of a line like a mannequin's
smile stretching from one nonexistent ear to the other, a swath of
supernatural glee across his face.
There
was a pulse on the air, and then a sudden wave of force ripped out of
Famine's body in all directions. When it hit Foundation and his men,
all of the gunfire stopped, and they all stumbled a few paces back;
they were burned inside and out, cooked like meat to a fine
medium-rare, and Foundation felt that if it had lasted any more than
the instant it had, he would've been dead. The tires of the vans
exploded loudly, and their metal forms fell to the road, pack animals
with broken legs. All of the men righted themselves as quickly as
they could, intending to continue their attack on the monster. But
they were stilled when the saw Famine standing, unmoved, with molten
metal and led running off his body. He stood in a puddle of melted
bullets, the red gashes of anger fading, the smile and the cold eyes
turning black and invisible once more.
Foundation
reached into his coat and took out a metal mask with transparent
aluminum eyes, placing it over his face. He watched as Famine stood,
watched as the beast did nothing.
And
then finally, a voice like the roar of an inferno said, so coldly and
without any hurry, “Are you going to play games with me like the
last ones did?”
Yeah,
the Magicians were dead. Foundation offered no reply.
“Agents
of Project Four,” said the beast, “You are hereby ordered to
disband and render yourselves dead in whatever way you prefer.”
At
that Foundation smirked, though he ground his teeth a bit too. “And
what authority do you have to issue orders?” He said it softly, but
knew the monster heard him.
“Hm?
Hm hm?” The voice sounded confused, “Oh, hm. Authority, what...
Hm. Heh,” there was an unbidden laugh beneath its voice, “What?
Yes, but I do, don't I? Because you're all dong exactly as I said,
out here getting yourselves KILLED!” He ended in a roar and surged
forward with speed that defied his size, tearing at the pavement with
his claws to throw and pull and drag himself forward with all the
strength he had in that unlikely body of his.
And
all the while the waves of heat began to push out, as though with
every beat of the beast's twisted heart. The policeman-soldiers began
to fire their weapons, and to fight against the strength of the heat
that was holding them back. They went for their riot shields but the
plastic and metal things bent, ready to collapse in their hands. Famine's
rasping breath, still carrying with it that laughter, filled their
senses. And Famine was fast enough that he was in their midst, behind
their barricades, in seconds.
Men burst into flames; Foundation didn't count how many. The familiar sound of a boiling human body found his ears. Foundation's face was protected by the metal mask he wore, so he
could see the horror about him, and he harnessed the insanity of the
situation to steel himself against it. The cards that hung from his
sleeves shot out towards Famine, thin wire trailing behind them, and
began to wrap themselves about the monster's limbs. With the heat
roiling off Famine like it was, Foundation figured he probably had
two or three minutes to live, as long as he could avoid bringing down
Famine's direct attention.
But
how was he supposed to that when he was the only person present both
able and willing to hold Famine for any length of time?
WHAT FOLLOWS: S1.E01.4
Monument had taken one of the vans and driven the coward's route: away. He didn't try to pretend what he was doing was in any way courageous, because it was the opposite. It was wise. Some hundred or so meters outside of Famine's lethal aura, his comfort and the tires of the van were still intact. These things had value. Inside the van, outside the searing snow-turned-rain, he watched through the open side door and felt the balmy winter night on his face. The red light from burning men was glowing against his white body armor, turning its polished surface orange. He supposed his pallid face, his pale eyes, were taking on the color of death as well, as its air washed over him. The death slipped past him like warm oil, though, glistening and polishing but not burdening him. He had no weapon; he would not need it. As long as Monument did not give attention to Famine, he would be left alone. That was the rule that Famine had lay down decades past. It was his mercy.
Men like Foundation did not accept that mercy, though. They could not. It was- Unexpected file termination, unable to render further.
Running search for missing data ... Data not found. ... Repeating search. ... Data not found. ... Repeating search. ... Data not found. ... Repeating search. ... Data not found. ... Repeating search. ... Data not found. ... Repeating search. ... Data not found. ... Search timeout ... Search unsuccessful.
File S1.E01.4 does not exist.
Sending request to Fiction Machine:
DIRECTORY: |pRoj<Ec>T_</fo>uR|
file: S1.E01.4
Status: pending
... ...
Status: request recieved
File name: S1.E01.4 under construction
Input: plot-to-date -- Monument -- Famine -- Temporal
Update Code: 07.18
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