[Richie looks back to the man. Byerly is quiet, but he's hardly stilled. That shift of the head, the bracing clench of muscle. He wonders if there wouldn't be a time where he'd see that coiled spring snap. The memories of Barrayar have both been so sedated, all about the implications in lieu of flashy action. Killing Richars was a notion that had Byerly balking, but the shots of his phaser had all glanced off the werewolf's head. If they don't find a way out of this maze he might yet see the day the gun worked.
Richie shakes his head. He points to the splattered blood in front of the fridge. There's a trail leading off into the woods. Rumpled underbrush and red spots.]
It's already eaten. Patrick Hockstetter was the last to go, before we followed it down into the sewers. That won't be for a few weeks yet. Beverly heard it happen from a ways off. She said she followed the trail down to a sewer pump, and that there was something like flying leeches around the fridge. That's what nipped her arm. This was just...
[He watches as Bill starts to kick at the pom poms. "Let's see you come out now, you fucker!" When he returns there's hail pummeling the ground like bullets from an unseen army above. He doesn't flinch away, or duck his head. There's tears streaking down his face and dribbling off his chin. Ben slips his arm around him, tells him it's all right as Richie gives his own reassurances.
"Don't worry. We're not gonna chicken out." He turns a meaningful stare to the rest of the crew. "Is there anyone here who's gonna chicken out?"
Not a single one of them takes the bait. They all shake their heads. Bill wipes his eyes and intones, "Ih-It's scuh-scuh-hared of u-u-us, you know. I can fuh-feel th-that. I swear to Guh-God I c-c-can."
"I think you're right," Beverly agrees.]
It's just a warning. It's putting up scarecrows. Trying to get us to buzz off.
[The boy looks plaintively to them all. Desperation only thickens the stutter, and Richie's own throat locks shut in sympathy. "H-H-Help m-m-me. P-P-Please. H-H-Help m-m-me."
One by one the children fold around him. They become a knot of arms, cheeks pressed to hair and foreheads, knobby knees shaking in the cold. Hail bounces off of their backs, but they do not budge. Not even when the ice turns to sheets of rain that soggy up their cotton shirts and blacken their denim. Byerly's question bounces through his mind again and Richie, impossibly, begins to laugh. How could they ever have been made to kill one another? That's lunacy talking. All you had to do was look and you'd know it wouldn't happen.
They would die for each other. In a heartbeat.
His chuckle quells. Richie turns his back to the scene, facing away from his modern day company as he wills the knot in his throat away. Stop the prickle in his eyes. In spite of all efforts he still sounds rough and raw when he speaks.]
no subject
Richie shakes his head. He points to the splattered blood in front of the fridge. There's a trail leading off into the woods. Rumpled underbrush and red spots.]
It's already eaten. Patrick Hockstetter was the last to go, before we followed it down into the sewers. That won't be for a few weeks yet. Beverly heard it happen from a ways off. She said she followed the trail down to a sewer pump, and that there was something like flying leeches around the fridge. That's what nipped her arm. This was just...
[He watches as Bill starts to kick at the pom poms. "Let's see you come out now, you fucker!" When he returns there's hail pummeling the ground like bullets from an unseen army above. He doesn't flinch away, or duck his head. There's tears streaking down his face and dribbling off his chin. Ben slips his arm around him, tells him it's all right as Richie gives his own reassurances.
"Don't worry. We're not gonna chicken out." He turns a meaningful stare to the rest of the crew. "Is there anyone here who's gonna chicken out?"
Not a single one of them takes the bait. They all shake their heads. Bill wipes his eyes and intones, "Ih-It's scuh-scuh-hared of u-u-us, you know. I can fuh-feel th-that. I swear to Guh-God I c-c-can."
"I think you're right," Beverly agrees.]
It's just a warning. It's putting up scarecrows. Trying to get us to buzz off.
[The boy looks plaintively to them all. Desperation only thickens the stutter, and Richie's own throat locks shut in sympathy. "H-H-Help m-m-me. P-P-Please. H-H-Help m-m-me."
One by one the children fold around him. They become a knot of arms, cheeks pressed to hair and foreheads, knobby knees shaking in the cold. Hail bounces off of their backs, but they do not budge. Not even when the ice turns to sheets of rain that soggy up their cotton shirts and blacken their denim. Byerly's question bounces through his mind again and Richie, impossibly, begins to laugh. How could they ever have been made to kill one another? That's lunacy talking. All you had to do was look and you'd know it wouldn't happen.
They would die for each other. In a heartbeat.
His chuckle quells. Richie turns his back to the scene, facing away from his modern day company as he wills the knot in his throat away. Stop the prickle in his eyes. In spite of all efforts he still sounds rough and raw when he speaks.]
I've had about enough of this.