01-24-2011, 07:35 AM
In their search for survivors, the enemy would leave no stone unturned. The brown-haired girl would have to find some crafty method of escape, if escape were even possible. Preferably one that avoided violence; she had killed the leader of this invader squad, but that had been based purely on luck. She doubted, rather heavily, that that same luck would repeat itself.
Back pressed against the wall, Iris looked around the corner of the building, seeing two soldiers cradling assault rifles, most likely more advanced than those of the militia; needless to say, it wouldn’t be a wise move for her, unarmed, to engage them in combat. She’d have to find another way.
She stepped away from the building, looking up. She thought about trying to climb up to the rooftop, but she nixed the idea almost immediately, out of the thought that she couldn’t jump high enough to reach any sort of hand-hold. She closed her eyes, and attempted to think about a sufficient method of escape, one that wouldn’t draw the attention of the guards — and then, almost as if to send her a message, her fingers began to tingle again. She opened her eyes, and an idea popped into her head; an idea that seemed illogical, by all human standards, but one that, in her situation, might work.
Dust flew up around her feet as she focused all of the energy — that energy that made her fingers burn — into her feet. She turned her gaze upward and pushed off of the ground, letting her ki surge into her feet and propel her higher, and higher, and higher; she reached out, and grasped the windowsill, barely hanging on. With a grunt, the girl pulled herself up, and climbed, as quickly as possible, onto the roof of the building. She sighed with relief when she reached the top.
For a moment, she was baffled — she had just used her powers to, sort of, energize what could’ve been a normal, human leap. Instead, it had transformed, into something of a Super Jump, as lame as that sounded. She struggled to her feet, and looked down, off the side of the building, at the two assault rifle-toting guards below. From this vantage point, she could see that they were just grunts; nevertheless, she didn’t want to attract their attention, because their guns still looked more formidable than anything Iris could’ve combated them with.
Cold metal suddenly pressed into the back of her neck. The barrel of a pistol, she would bet on that; she opened her mouth to say something, but then thought better of it — let them make the first move.
“What,” the boy’s voice asked, “is a pretty girl like you doing out here?” Iris felt a hand on her shoulder, and the guy jerked her around to face him. The boy wasn’t a soldier, for he didn’t have a uniform Although, he didn’t seem to be that much of a boy. He didn’t have any facial hair, but the features on his face were chiseled. His hair was messy, and unkempt, and blonde, but his clothes seemed clean, and orderly, as if they’d been washed recently. A quick glance down at Iris’s clothes and one could tell that although she’d gotten them freshly from the wardrobe inside that apartment, no one had lived there in a while, and thus, they weren’t exactly well taken care of.
The boy cocked the gun. “Tell me who you are, or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you,” he ordered her, pressing the pistol more firmly into the skin of her neck. She swallowed, and she could feel the lump in her throat caress the gun’s barrel. Once again, fear swelled up inside her — but this boy didn’t seem to be the enemy.
“My name’s Iris,” she revealed reluctantly, “And I’m — well, I’m supposed to be a soldier for the militia.” The messy-haired boy narrowed his eyes, as if to ask what that last statement meant; Iris didn’t make him waste his time, and explained. “What I mean by that is, well, I ran away. Or, am running away, actually.” The blonde-haired youth — no older than her, she guessed — seemed satisfied by this answer, rather than put off. He took the pistol’s barrel off of her throat, and scowled.
“You’re a deserter, eh?” he muttered, “Good for you. Them bastards don’t know how to run a war, so anyone who’s against them is a friend of mine. ‘Cept them aliens, o’course.” Iris massaged her neck, where the pistol had pressed on it. The boy turned back to her. “Sorry about that, but we freelancers can’t be too careful.”
“Freelancers?” the girl asked, making sure to keep her voice down. The boy did the same; he paused for a moment, walking over and glancing off the side of the building. His expression told Iris that the soldiers were still there, probably looking for her. She bit her lip, unsure of whether or not to reveal this to this boy. He spun on his heel, and looked her over.
“Yeah,” he started, “freelancers. We’re out on our own, because we can’t trust the government assholes who run that militia to worry about our lives. It’s how we were raised out here, on Mercy — every man for himself.”
Swanning thought, for a moment, about this idea. ‘Every man for himself.’ That was how she felt; why she had left her unit to die like that, not long ago. Perhaps this boy — and whomever he meant when he’d said ‘we’ — had the right idea. She’d much prefer it over being treated like a pig being prepped for slaughter. Of course, she did not know how long she would be able to last, on her own; she had never been a fighter, and didn’t know if she would be able to hold her own in this world, around such dangerous circumstance. Was it worth taking that chance?
She looked at the boy out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t looking at her; he had turned his attention elsewhere, to another pair of soldiers that was scoping out another nearby alleyway. “They’re out for you,” he told her, glancing over his shoulder at the girl, “It’s amazing how persistent they are. And you just an infantry girl. Systematic elimination, and they aren’t leaving this job unfinished.”
“I’m dead, right?” Iris asked forebodingly, but the boy laughed. “I’m not exactly sure my situation is something you should be laughing about, uh, whoever you are. I actually don’t think you’ve told me your name yet, have you?” The boy laughed again, and Iris scowled; his callous sense of humor about her life or death didn’t exactly leave her pleased. He ran a hand through his hair, and then looked at her, over his shoulder, before turning around and walking towards her.
“As long as you stick with me,” he assured her, “you should be fine. And my name’s Hotshot, by the by.” Iris raised an eyebrow.
“A little presumptuous, I think,” she mocked him. He slid his pistol out of its holder, and aimed it for one of the guards below. Swanning’s eyes widened — was he just going to give away their position like that? Luckily, he spun it in his hand, and then slid it back into the holster.
“I got the name for a reason, sweet cheeks,” Hotshot replied.
“I believe you, I believe you,” Iris held up her hands, in an attempt to make sure the idea of demonstrating his precision with a gun didn’t pop back into his brain. “I’m Iris Swanning. That’s my name.” She sighed — men, always needing to prove themselves. She supposed it all charted itself back to their obsession with being bigger and better than everyone else. With the men she’d met, it was always, ‘I’m a better player of this sport’ or ‘I’ve got the bigger dick’ or something equally primordial.
Hotshot sprung into a sprint, running past her and grasping her hand; she felt herself get pulled along, and seconds later she was gliding headlong over an alleyway. After a few more moments, she tumbled onto the adjacent roof, still reeling from the shock of the flight in the first place. The boy was, as Swanning had grown to expect, laughing at her misery.
“Up and at ‘em, babe,” Hotshot smirked, and he gestured for her to follow him as he walked toward the edge of this building. Iris clambered to her feet, and took a deep breath as she ran after the boy, leaping from one building to the next, always just barely reaching her destination; she didn’t know where he was taking her, but any place seemed better than where they were at — at Hotshot’s location, at least, she didn’t think there would be any aliens whose sole purpose, at the moment, was to find her and kill her. That was always a plus, she decided.
Back pressed against the wall, Iris looked around the corner of the building, seeing two soldiers cradling assault rifles, most likely more advanced than those of the militia; needless to say, it wouldn’t be a wise move for her, unarmed, to engage them in combat. She’d have to find another way.
She stepped away from the building, looking up. She thought about trying to climb up to the rooftop, but she nixed the idea almost immediately, out of the thought that she couldn’t jump high enough to reach any sort of hand-hold. She closed her eyes, and attempted to think about a sufficient method of escape, one that wouldn’t draw the attention of the guards — and then, almost as if to send her a message, her fingers began to tingle again. She opened her eyes, and an idea popped into her head; an idea that seemed illogical, by all human standards, but one that, in her situation, might work.
Dust flew up around her feet as she focused all of the energy — that energy that made her fingers burn — into her feet. She turned her gaze upward and pushed off of the ground, letting her ki surge into her feet and propel her higher, and higher, and higher; she reached out, and grasped the windowsill, barely hanging on. With a grunt, the girl pulled herself up, and climbed, as quickly as possible, onto the roof of the building. She sighed with relief when she reached the top.
For a moment, she was baffled — she had just used her powers to, sort of, energize what could’ve been a normal, human leap. Instead, it had transformed, into something of a Super Jump, as lame as that sounded. She struggled to her feet, and looked down, off the side of the building, at the two assault rifle-toting guards below. From this vantage point, she could see that they were just grunts; nevertheless, she didn’t want to attract their attention, because their guns still looked more formidable than anything Iris could’ve combated them with.
Cold metal suddenly pressed into the back of her neck. The barrel of a pistol, she would bet on that; she opened her mouth to say something, but then thought better of it — let them make the first move.
“What,” the boy’s voice asked, “is a pretty girl like you doing out here?” Iris felt a hand on her shoulder, and the guy jerked her around to face him. The boy wasn’t a soldier, for he didn’t have a uniform Although, he didn’t seem to be that much of a boy. He didn’t have any facial hair, but the features on his face were chiseled. His hair was messy, and unkempt, and blonde, but his clothes seemed clean, and orderly, as if they’d been washed recently. A quick glance down at Iris’s clothes and one could tell that although she’d gotten them freshly from the wardrobe inside that apartment, no one had lived there in a while, and thus, they weren’t exactly well taken care of.
The boy cocked the gun. “Tell me who you are, or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you,” he ordered her, pressing the pistol more firmly into the skin of her neck. She swallowed, and she could feel the lump in her throat caress the gun’s barrel. Once again, fear swelled up inside her — but this boy didn’t seem to be the enemy.
“My name’s Iris,” she revealed reluctantly, “And I’m — well, I’m supposed to be a soldier for the militia.” The messy-haired boy narrowed his eyes, as if to ask what that last statement meant; Iris didn’t make him waste his time, and explained. “What I mean by that is, well, I ran away. Or, am running away, actually.” The blonde-haired youth — no older than her, she guessed — seemed satisfied by this answer, rather than put off. He took the pistol’s barrel off of her throat, and scowled.
“You’re a deserter, eh?” he muttered, “Good for you. Them bastards don’t know how to run a war, so anyone who’s against them is a friend of mine. ‘Cept them aliens, o’course.” Iris massaged her neck, where the pistol had pressed on it. The boy turned back to her. “Sorry about that, but we freelancers can’t be too careful.”
“Freelancers?” the girl asked, making sure to keep her voice down. The boy did the same; he paused for a moment, walking over and glancing off the side of the building. His expression told Iris that the soldiers were still there, probably looking for her. She bit her lip, unsure of whether or not to reveal this to this boy. He spun on his heel, and looked her over.
“Yeah,” he started, “freelancers. We’re out on our own, because we can’t trust the government assholes who run that militia to worry about our lives. It’s how we were raised out here, on Mercy — every man for himself.”
Swanning thought, for a moment, about this idea. ‘Every man for himself.’ That was how she felt; why she had left her unit to die like that, not long ago. Perhaps this boy — and whomever he meant when he’d said ‘we’ — had the right idea. She’d much prefer it over being treated like a pig being prepped for slaughter. Of course, she did not know how long she would be able to last, on her own; she had never been a fighter, and didn’t know if she would be able to hold her own in this world, around such dangerous circumstance. Was it worth taking that chance?
She looked at the boy out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t looking at her; he had turned his attention elsewhere, to another pair of soldiers that was scoping out another nearby alleyway. “They’re out for you,” he told her, glancing over his shoulder at the girl, “It’s amazing how persistent they are. And you just an infantry girl. Systematic elimination, and they aren’t leaving this job unfinished.”
“I’m dead, right?” Iris asked forebodingly, but the boy laughed. “I’m not exactly sure my situation is something you should be laughing about, uh, whoever you are. I actually don’t think you’ve told me your name yet, have you?” The boy laughed again, and Iris scowled; his callous sense of humor about her life or death didn’t exactly leave her pleased. He ran a hand through his hair, and then looked at her, over his shoulder, before turning around and walking towards her.
“As long as you stick with me,” he assured her, “you should be fine. And my name’s Hotshot, by the by.” Iris raised an eyebrow.
“A little presumptuous, I think,” she mocked him. He slid his pistol out of its holder, and aimed it for one of the guards below. Swanning’s eyes widened — was he just going to give away their position like that? Luckily, he spun it in his hand, and then slid it back into the holster.
“I got the name for a reason, sweet cheeks,” Hotshot replied.
“I believe you, I believe you,” Iris held up her hands, in an attempt to make sure the idea of demonstrating his precision with a gun didn’t pop back into his brain. “I’m Iris Swanning. That’s my name.” She sighed — men, always needing to prove themselves. She supposed it all charted itself back to their obsession with being bigger and better than everyone else. With the men she’d met, it was always, ‘I’m a better player of this sport’ or ‘I’ve got the bigger dick’ or something equally primordial.
Hotshot sprung into a sprint, running past her and grasping her hand; she felt herself get pulled along, and seconds later she was gliding headlong over an alleyway. After a few more moments, she tumbled onto the adjacent roof, still reeling from the shock of the flight in the first place. The boy was, as Swanning had grown to expect, laughing at her misery.
“Up and at ‘em, babe,” Hotshot smirked, and he gestured for her to follow him as he walked toward the edge of this building. Iris clambered to her feet, and took a deep breath as she ran after the boy, leaping from one building to the next, always just barely reaching her destination; she didn’t know where he was taking her, but any place seemed better than where they were at — at Hotshot’s location, at least, she didn’t think there would be any aliens whose sole purpose, at the moment, was to find her and kill her. That was always a plus, she decided.