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letterbladeOkay, no, I've managed one more scene.
I admit that I had hoped for more, but, well. Still a decent show, all told. Wrap-up post to come at nine.
*****
Vietnam, Quang Ngai Province, spring of 1971
The first thing she sees when she comes outside, scans the world through the narrow blocky slots of the helmet and squints in the sunlight she hasn't seen this clearly in three weeks, is Yinsen's body. Broken with rifle fire in the hacked and trampled grass. Flies already gathering in the blood.
"Bastards," she spits. Rings hollow in the helmet, brittle in her ears.
There's one hoarse shout from behind her, and the air fills with lead. Drumming like hail on the hand-forged steel. Drives her backwards a little; it's like standing under a waterfall, and she flinches instinctively, plastering herself against the back of the chestpiece, and then she realizes, really properly realizes, that it isn't getting through.
Bullets pepper her, harmless as sand. She eases up straight despite the pain. Starts laughing. They can't touch her. Nobody can touch her. She's invincible, she's safe.
They want her weapons. They want her body. The one will shield the other, and they'll get what they asked for. The best of the best. For the first time in her life, she's all her own.
She hears her own battle scream ringing in the helmet. One high, fierce, terrible cry as the servos raise her arms for her, as she flicks the switch inside in her left thumb and opens up the flamethrowers. Marches slow towards them as the rain of bullets fades, as the whole damn forest starts screaming. As the heat rises shimmering; screaming man runs towards her, swipe of one arm drops him in his tracks.
They break and run.
It's over.
The jungle's swallowed them. Soaked up every sign, every sound. She lowers her arms, slowly, joints pressing on her shoulders. Fire sputters and dies and sends up clouds of musty smoke from the underbrush.
She's an iron monolith in the broken, bloodstained forest. Her blood is roaring in her ears, and her nose is full of smoke and napalm and scorched flesh, and she's sopping, slick against the metal with sweat and blood and tears. The suit's soaking up the heat of the sun; sweat pours down her back; the ache in her chest is dull, lessened, eased by the electromagnet, drowned out by the pounding in her head.
One of the bamboo hutches creaks under sputtering flames, collapses with a roar. She observes, cautiously, that beyond all hope, she's alive. Every moment until now collapses, telescopes; it's meaningless, it's far, far away. The squirming of a maggot on the distant, corrupted shores of America. She has built her chrysalis now. She is standing in the wilderness of Vietnam, free for the first time in her life, in iron armor and blood; the enormity of those simple facts crumples everything behind her. Ty Stone is just a naked man.
She turns, finds a trail, and starts walking. Her boots crack bamboo rods and carry her over twisted bodies and thorny vines. Firm whirr of servos with every stem, relentless. She shudders, from time to time, convulsive twitches of her body--it feels like relief.
Andrea Stark, it occurs to her, is dead.
*****
This post is part of the Fanfiction Frenzy for Planned Parenthood, which is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wired_lizard's outing for Day of Blogs, and has raised $285 so far. Like what you see? Please consider donating!
I admit that I had hoped for more, but, well. Still a decent show, all told. Wrap-up post to come at nine.
*****
Vietnam, Quang Ngai Province, spring of 1971
The first thing she sees when she comes outside, scans the world through the narrow blocky slots of the helmet and squints in the sunlight she hasn't seen this clearly in three weeks, is Yinsen's body. Broken with rifle fire in the hacked and trampled grass. Flies already gathering in the blood.
"Bastards," she spits. Rings hollow in the helmet, brittle in her ears.
There's one hoarse shout from behind her, and the air fills with lead. Drumming like hail on the hand-forged steel. Drives her backwards a little; it's like standing under a waterfall, and she flinches instinctively, plastering herself against the back of the chestpiece, and then she realizes, really properly realizes, that it isn't getting through.
Bullets pepper her, harmless as sand. She eases up straight despite the pain. Starts laughing. They can't touch her. Nobody can touch her. She's invincible, she's safe.
They want her weapons. They want her body. The one will shield the other, and they'll get what they asked for. The best of the best. For the first time in her life, she's all her own.
She hears her own battle scream ringing in the helmet. One high, fierce, terrible cry as the servos raise her arms for her, as she flicks the switch inside in her left thumb and opens up the flamethrowers. Marches slow towards them as the rain of bullets fades, as the whole damn forest starts screaming. As the heat rises shimmering; screaming man runs towards her, swipe of one arm drops him in his tracks.
They break and run.
It's over.
The jungle's swallowed them. Soaked up every sign, every sound. She lowers her arms, slowly, joints pressing on her shoulders. Fire sputters and dies and sends up clouds of musty smoke from the underbrush.
She's an iron monolith in the broken, bloodstained forest. Her blood is roaring in her ears, and her nose is full of smoke and napalm and scorched flesh, and she's sopping, slick against the metal with sweat and blood and tears. The suit's soaking up the heat of the sun; sweat pours down her back; the ache in her chest is dull, lessened, eased by the electromagnet, drowned out by the pounding in her head.
One of the bamboo hutches creaks under sputtering flames, collapses with a roar. She observes, cautiously, that beyond all hope, she's alive. Every moment until now collapses, telescopes; it's meaningless, it's far, far away. The squirming of a maggot on the distant, corrupted shores of America. She has built her chrysalis now. She is standing in the wilderness of Vietnam, free for the first time in her life, in iron armor and blood; the enormity of those simple facts crumples everything behind her. Ty Stone is just a naked man.
She turns, finds a trail, and starts walking. Her boots crack bamboo rods and carry her over twisted bodies and thorny vines. Firm whirr of servos with every stem, relentless. She shudders, from time to time, convulsive twitches of her body--it feels like relief.
Andrea Stark, it occurs to her, is dead.
*****
This post is part of the Fanfiction Frenzy for Planned Parenthood, which is
wired_lizard's outing for Day of Blogs, and has raised $285 so far. Like what you see? Please consider donating!