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Instinct // for Greta
Jan. 1st, 2020 04:01 pmAnne's not sure where the idea came from or how it took such sharp hold, but by the first light of dawn it's come to her and she's decided: she's going to check on the baker. Last night had presented the greatest and most familiar sort of danger they've faced in this city, which is ridiculous twice over, both because the danger itself was remote, and the familiarity was only in that it could be solved with drawn blood. Beyond that, it was like nothing they'd encountered, and all very stupid besides. But there had been danger, of a sort, and the idea of Greta facing it is something that don't sit right. Most of the town had been out that night, and there's no reason why she shouldn't be one of them. She might turn up at Eliot's whatever-he-calls-it. 'Brunch.' But Anne don't like the idea of going there and waiting and hoping. So, without saying why or where she's going or how long she'll be, Anne leaves the apartment early. Jack doesn't question it, only says he'll meet her there, at the brunch.
She hadn't really said whether or not she wanted to go. But Jack's going, so she's going. Something about that don't sit right, either; something about Jack and how easy he's let Eliot into their world and how much that's become their world gnaws at her, and though it's been well over a month now she still hasn't taken the time to figure it out. Easier not to when it'll sort itself in time. It always does, with them.
She picks her way across town to Greta's home outside the city. She still remembers where; it's about the only place here, other than their apartment, that she's been to more than once. She keeps her hands on her swords as she goes, searching for any remaining signs of the creatures. They'd killed so many last night, and some of the dead are still strewn about here and there, though there's some kind of clean-up effort happening. All seems even stranger in daylight, and she keeps her goal at the fore, not wanting to dwell on any of it too heavily.
When she finally reaches Greta's cottage, all seems quiet at first, and there's sign of movement inside. Her first sense is of relief, and that surprises her enough that she stops short as if to take stock of herself. And before she can, her eyes fall to the thing on the porch. She hadn't seen it at first, partially hidden by the rail and easily passed over by how still it is, but as she looks closer, she can see it's one of those things, and it is still alive, twitching in its slow, stupid way toward Greta's door.
She doesn't even think. She just acts. She lunges up onto the porch, blades drawn, and comes down on top of the thing with a burst of speed and fury she hadn't even known she was storing. These things aren't fast, but they are strong and durable, and just as there's only one of it, there's only one of her. She can't afford to hesitate and she's not taking any chances that it'll survive her onslaught. Without Eliot's magic, it ain't so quick. So with an unrestrained growl of effort, she thrusts her blades into its horrible stinking body, yanks them back out and stabs again, ignoring the blood as it spurts fresh across her face and coat.
She hadn't really said whether or not she wanted to go. But Jack's going, so she's going. Something about that don't sit right, either; something about Jack and how easy he's let Eliot into their world and how much that's become their world gnaws at her, and though it's been well over a month now she still hasn't taken the time to figure it out. Easier not to when it'll sort itself in time. It always does, with them.
She picks her way across town to Greta's home outside the city. She still remembers where; it's about the only place here, other than their apartment, that she's been to more than once. She keeps her hands on her swords as she goes, searching for any remaining signs of the creatures. They'd killed so many last night, and some of the dead are still strewn about here and there, though there's some kind of clean-up effort happening. All seems even stranger in daylight, and she keeps her goal at the fore, not wanting to dwell on any of it too heavily.
When she finally reaches Greta's cottage, all seems quiet at first, and there's sign of movement inside. Her first sense is of relief, and that surprises her enough that she stops short as if to take stock of herself. And before she can, her eyes fall to the thing on the porch. She hadn't seen it at first, partially hidden by the rail and easily passed over by how still it is, but as she looks closer, she can see it's one of those things, and it is still alive, twitching in its slow, stupid way toward Greta's door.
She doesn't even think. She just acts. She lunges up onto the porch, blades drawn, and comes down on top of the thing with a burst of speed and fury she hadn't even known she was storing. These things aren't fast, but they are strong and durable, and just as there's only one of it, there's only one of her. She can't afford to hesitate and she's not taking any chances that it'll survive her onslaught. Without Eliot's magic, it ain't so quick. So with an unrestrained growl of effort, she thrusts her blades into its horrible stinking body, yanks them back out and stabs again, ignoring the blood as it spurts fresh across her face and coat.
