Six—no, seven. Seven eyes. Maybe more. Bjørn was uncertain as to what exactly he had just killed, but it had had more eyes than any humanoid form should ever have.
With shaky hands he had reached for the stolen handgun tucked at his hip, lanky fingers fumbling to unfasten the safety before he emptied the magazine into the creature without a second thought. There’d been a time in his life when the only guns he shot were part of a virtual game, but in these past few weeks alone, real weapons—more than he could count—had passed through his hands.
This particular gun was one of the two weapons he hadn’t tossed aside upon use, instead striving to get ammunition whenever he could, namely from those he slew in self-defence. 10mm ammunition seemed to be easily accessible given how frequently he’d successfully swiped a magazine from an unsuspecting...
Bjørn wasn’t too sure who these gun-totting individuals were aside from trigger-happy dickheads who clearly had nothing better to do with their time than shoot at him. He’d killed his fair share of attackers, but even to him the ‘self-defence’ excuse was losing credibility.
The truth was that the fledgling had done a lot more harm than he was willing to concede, and though taking the offensive was mostly out of necessity, many people were dead because of his actions. It wasn’t just the shooting and stabbing that haunted him, for it was evident that he wouldn’t still be alive were it not for his willingness to fight. What haunted him were the other things he did, those driven by an insatiable thirst he couldn’t tame any other way. He had tried to fight it, but it had only pushed self-control out of his grasp, instinct seemingly taking over. It was only the bite of a bullet or the scream of a third party that broke him out of his trance.
It wasn’t a sustainable lifestyle, but he knew no other way.
Hand still tightly wound about the magazine well, finger digging into the trigger guard, Bjørn ran as far away from the multi-eyed mass as he could get. It’d stopped shrieking, and didn’t sound as though it was following, but he ran nevertheless.
The shots had resonated far and wide, further revealing the expansiveness of this underground network he’d often retreat to. The sight of him hardly allowed him to go unnoticed above ground. There was also the matter of sunlight burning him to a crisp, which kept him from venturing out much.
Bjørn knew both creatures and (what he assumed to be) people inhabited these tunnels, but he hadn’t managed to rationalise them into the grand scheme of the distorted reality he was now living day to day. Some were prone to unprovoked attacks. Sometimes he managed to slip by those particular types unnoticed. Others seemed unencumbered by his presence, disinterested at best. There was no discernable pattern, and so he kept to himself, doing his best to survive until the next pile of **** hit the metaphorical fan.
Though he knew not where he was going, Bjørn managed to find his way to a dank exit point. It was only then, when he paused to glance back over his shoulder, that he realised this was familiar territory. He’d yet to create a mental map of this maze, but when he wasn’t concerned as to where he was going, he always seemed to find a way out. Instinct.
Gun still in hand, he rested against the wall to catch his breath. It seemed easier now than ever before. There was something about him that had changed, for here he was still standing after landing his fair share of bullet wounds. Pushing aside the shoddy jacket to reveal a bloodied t-shirt, he checked on the newest lesion to his abdomen. It looked a lot better than it had two days ago, but it was an ugly sight to behold. Somehow, he wasn’t worried about it leaving a scar; none of the other bullets had.
Anyone reasonable would have gone to the hospital to get the wound treated, but Bjørn doubted he’d be doing himself any favours. In fact, he seemed to be a favoured target of uniformed officers, which was a huge incentive to staying out of sight. These dark and dank tunnels might have their fair share of dangers, but he had far less encounters down here than he had up there. So why venture back out?
Answer: instinct
With a grunt, the fledgling pushed off the wall and made for the incline leading to the steps. There was no light coming down from the opening above them, and so he approached it without hesitation. A quick glance behind him was reassurance enough that there was no need for a weapon, and so he clicked the safety back into place and tucked the gun into the back pocket of his raggedy jeans. His jeans: the only clothing item that originally belonged to him.
He stroked his neck, all too aware of the grime that stuck to unnaturally clean-shaven skin (it had been weeks since he’d seen a razor, let alone use one). There was something out there that he wanted--nay, needed. Bjørn struggled to understand his state of mind, but knew it was to no avail to fight whatever force drove him forward. If he fought it, it would fight back and overpower him, as it had done many, many times before. Swallowing with considerable difficulty, he slowly made his way up the steps, the cold air uncomfortably prickling his throat and chest as he dropped his hand from his throat. Pulling the hood over his head, he stepped out into the street, eyes vigilant beneath the matted fur lining his hood.
The street appeared empty, a double-edged sword really. It meant no one would shoot him in the back without him noticing their presence first, but it also meant travelling further from the tunnels in search of the quencher to this unnatural, and somewhat upsetting, thirst. For once, however, the tunnels didn’t feel as safe a haven as he’d believed them to be. A final glance over his shoulder was necessary to convince himself that whatever he had seen, he’d killed it... or at least injured it sufficiently for it to lag behind. With that thought, he hastened his step, caught between two realities he couldn’t bring himself to fully integrate.
With shaky hands he had reached for the stolen handgun tucked at his hip, lanky fingers fumbling to unfasten the safety before he emptied the magazine into the creature without a second thought. There’d been a time in his life when the only guns he shot were part of a virtual game, but in these past few weeks alone, real weapons—more than he could count—had passed through his hands.
This particular gun was one of the two weapons he hadn’t tossed aside upon use, instead striving to get ammunition whenever he could, namely from those he slew in self-defence. 10mm ammunition seemed to be easily accessible given how frequently he’d successfully swiped a magazine from an unsuspecting...
Bjørn wasn’t too sure who these gun-totting individuals were aside from trigger-happy dickheads who clearly had nothing better to do with their time than shoot at him. He’d killed his fair share of attackers, but even to him the ‘self-defence’ excuse was losing credibility.
The truth was that the fledgling had done a lot more harm than he was willing to concede, and though taking the offensive was mostly out of necessity, many people were dead because of his actions. It wasn’t just the shooting and stabbing that haunted him, for it was evident that he wouldn’t still be alive were it not for his willingness to fight. What haunted him were the other things he did, those driven by an insatiable thirst he couldn’t tame any other way. He had tried to fight it, but it had only pushed self-control out of his grasp, instinct seemingly taking over. It was only the bite of a bullet or the scream of a third party that broke him out of his trance.
It wasn’t a sustainable lifestyle, but he knew no other way.
Hand still tightly wound about the magazine well, finger digging into the trigger guard, Bjørn ran as far away from the multi-eyed mass as he could get. It’d stopped shrieking, and didn’t sound as though it was following, but he ran nevertheless.
The shots had resonated far and wide, further revealing the expansiveness of this underground network he’d often retreat to. The sight of him hardly allowed him to go unnoticed above ground. There was also the matter of sunlight burning him to a crisp, which kept him from venturing out much.
Bjørn knew both creatures and (what he assumed to be) people inhabited these tunnels, but he hadn’t managed to rationalise them into the grand scheme of the distorted reality he was now living day to day. Some were prone to unprovoked attacks. Sometimes he managed to slip by those particular types unnoticed. Others seemed unencumbered by his presence, disinterested at best. There was no discernable pattern, and so he kept to himself, doing his best to survive until the next pile of **** hit the metaphorical fan.
Though he knew not where he was going, Bjørn managed to find his way to a dank exit point. It was only then, when he paused to glance back over his shoulder, that he realised this was familiar territory. He’d yet to create a mental map of this maze, but when he wasn’t concerned as to where he was going, he always seemed to find a way out. Instinct.
Gun still in hand, he rested against the wall to catch his breath. It seemed easier now than ever before. There was something about him that had changed, for here he was still standing after landing his fair share of bullet wounds. Pushing aside the shoddy jacket to reveal a bloodied t-shirt, he checked on the newest lesion to his abdomen. It looked a lot better than it had two days ago, but it was an ugly sight to behold. Somehow, he wasn’t worried about it leaving a scar; none of the other bullets had.
Anyone reasonable would have gone to the hospital to get the wound treated, but Bjørn doubted he’d be doing himself any favours. In fact, he seemed to be a favoured target of uniformed officers, which was a huge incentive to staying out of sight. These dark and dank tunnels might have their fair share of dangers, but he had far less encounters down here than he had up there. So why venture back out?
Answer: instinct
With a grunt, the fledgling pushed off the wall and made for the incline leading to the steps. There was no light coming down from the opening above them, and so he approached it without hesitation. A quick glance behind him was reassurance enough that there was no need for a weapon, and so he clicked the safety back into place and tucked the gun into the back pocket of his raggedy jeans. His jeans: the only clothing item that originally belonged to him.
He stroked his neck, all too aware of the grime that stuck to unnaturally clean-shaven skin (it had been weeks since he’d seen a razor, let alone use one). There was something out there that he wanted--nay, needed. Bjørn struggled to understand his state of mind, but knew it was to no avail to fight whatever force drove him forward. If he fought it, it would fight back and overpower him, as it had done many, many times before. Swallowing with considerable difficulty, he slowly made his way up the steps, the cold air uncomfortably prickling his throat and chest as he dropped his hand from his throat. Pulling the hood over his head, he stepped out into the street, eyes vigilant beneath the matted fur lining his hood.
The street appeared empty, a double-edged sword really. It meant no one would shoot him in the back without him noticing their presence first, but it also meant travelling further from the tunnels in search of the quencher to this unnatural, and somewhat upsetting, thirst. For once, however, the tunnels didn’t feel as safe a haven as he’d believed them to be. A final glance over his shoulder was necessary to convince himself that whatever he had seen, he’d killed it... or at least injured it sufficiently for it to lag behind. With that thought, he hastened his step, caught between two realities he couldn’t bring himself to fully integrate.
