Damn Bunnies
Mar. 7th, 2005 04:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sadlikeknivesI'm supposed to be writing a five-page essay. Well, I am writing a five-page essay, a rather cracked-out, free-form affair on fanfiction. I'm just sort of...taking a break. To write about Age of Heroes Moses.
This is London.
This is a dragon.
This is Moses Lawton, getting tossed sideways and through the air by a tail as big around as her body.
This is her knee, going. She'll be in a brace for weeks, maybe months after this. Probably need surgery. No time to worry about that now.
She hauls herself up and Chris tells her to get back, tries to grab her arm. She shakes him off with a cold grey glare and says flatly, "You're all morons."
“What?” He blinks at her, owlishly.
She snaps, “I’m a pyro, remember? This is what I train for. Now, you get the fuck back, before I accidentally fry your ass.” He abandons her, does as he’s told, and she’s hobbling back toward the combat zone, hand on anything she can grab to keep herself vertical. Railing, brickwork, whatever. Just keep moving forward, until she’s close enough to yell to Dee, “Get out of here!” He nods, gives the signal to the rest of Team Three, and books. They all do until Moses is left alone, staring up at a fire-breathing reptile as big as a building.
She can do the math, and she knows fire inside and out. The dragon’s flame is blue. Blue means hot. Really hot. Probably hotter than she’s ever tried before. But she looks up at the dragon and says, “Bring it on.”
And the flame hits her, and there’s the rubber of her boots between her and the pavement, so she can’t get rid of it. Takes it, stores it, pours it down into already charged batteries. When the dragon stops flaming her, it seems utterly surprised to see her still standing there, as opposed to a small pile of ashes. It tries again, and every cell of her body is screaming with pure fire. But it’s not enough, still not enough, and she knows it. So she waits.
Again.
Her body feels strange, like her skin is too small for the energy contained within, and she shoves her weight onto her busted knee, lets the pain course through her and remind her she’s human. Self-immolation isn’t on the menu for today, and too many pyros have died by forgetting their limits. Of course, they weren’t Moses.
She looks up at the dragon and starts to hum, a few lines from a rock song Dee sings when he’s letting his power loose on someone in a fight, driving them to self-destructive madness. And she shoves all the flame straight down the dragon’s throat.
She collapses to her knees on the pavement, screams when she hits and a whole new level of white-hot pain stabs through the right knee. Dee is there, pulling her up and lifting her into his arms. “Is it dead?” she asks muzzily.
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s dead. You fried it pretty good, little girl. Come on, we’ve got to get you to the hospital.”
This is Moses.
This is London.
This is a dragon.
This is Moses Lawton, getting tossed sideways and through the air by a tail as big around as her body.
This is her knee, going. She'll be in a brace for weeks, maybe months after this. Probably need surgery. No time to worry about that now.
She hauls herself up and Chris tells her to get back, tries to grab her arm. She shakes him off with a cold grey glare and says flatly, "You're all morons."
“What?” He blinks at her, owlishly.
She snaps, “I’m a pyro, remember? This is what I train for. Now, you get the fuck back, before I accidentally fry your ass.” He abandons her, does as he’s told, and she’s hobbling back toward the combat zone, hand on anything she can grab to keep herself vertical. Railing, brickwork, whatever. Just keep moving forward, until she’s close enough to yell to Dee, “Get out of here!” He nods, gives the signal to the rest of Team Three, and books. They all do until Moses is left alone, staring up at a fire-breathing reptile as big as a building.
She can do the math, and she knows fire inside and out. The dragon’s flame is blue. Blue means hot. Really hot. Probably hotter than she’s ever tried before. But she looks up at the dragon and says, “Bring it on.”
And the flame hits her, and there’s the rubber of her boots between her and the pavement, so she can’t get rid of it. Takes it, stores it, pours it down into already charged batteries. When the dragon stops flaming her, it seems utterly surprised to see her still standing there, as opposed to a small pile of ashes. It tries again, and every cell of her body is screaming with pure fire. But it’s not enough, still not enough, and she knows it. So she waits.
Again.
Her body feels strange, like her skin is too small for the energy contained within, and she shoves her weight onto her busted knee, lets the pain course through her and remind her she’s human. Self-immolation isn’t on the menu for today, and too many pyros have died by forgetting their limits. Of course, they weren’t Moses.
She looks up at the dragon and starts to hum, a few lines from a rock song Dee sings when he’s letting his power loose on someone in a fight, driving them to self-destructive madness. And she shoves all the flame straight down the dragon’s throat.
She collapses to her knees on the pavement, screams when she hits and a whole new level of white-hot pain stabs through the right knee. Dee is there, pulling her up and lifting her into his arms. “Is it dead?” she asks muzzily.
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s dead. You fried it pretty good, little girl. Come on, we’ve got to get you to the hospital.”
This is Moses.
