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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    not a creature was stirring | round iii
    #11
    ENOUGH!

    The teeth that are dug deep into his left leg, retract and the bullet shot from Mr. Pittman’s gun sails by, impossibly slow into the wall behind him. Mr. Pittman’s wife is at the top of the stars now, mouth shaped in a wide O as she screams, but the sound that comes out is so dull and low, it’s as if enveloped in cotton. The only sound that is clear and loud and is that of the jingle and old wood creak of Santa’s sleigh.

    Suddenly they are outside, the blood from his bite ebbing down his shredded pajama bottom – these were definitely getting thrown away. The false little boy in the hulking man that stood in his neighbor’s yard was mesmerized for a breath at the sight of the white bearded man with the weathered face and gloved hands atop his sleigh. The magic-wrought memories of childhood flooded him and for a moment he reconsiders who he should be helping – but was he not a man of his word? Besides, with the antlers glowing hot on his head, it was far too late.

    He is directed to the North Pole and a bitter laugh can’t be held any longer, maybe the Sand Man and the Easter Bunny would help him along his way. Hadn’t he watched a movie like that with his kids once? Some shit like that. “Let’s go,” he snaps at the demons that squabble at his feet, they disgusted him, they were not one in the same. He was just here to ensure that his family ended up on the right side of whatever kind of fairytale apocalypse was going on. This is how the world would end, he laughed again, not with Walking Dead zombies or with a nuclear firefight – world destruction by the characters of your childhood.
    “You are some stupid shits,” he growls, kicking the nearest demon as they teleport to their first destination. He hadn’t chosen it, his thoughts had been on Northern Canada or Norway possibly, get as close as possible right? Nope. The buildings around him were still mostly rubble and the heavy scent of concrete ash and desperation still hung in the air. He could only assume it was some kind of Middle Eastern country by the Arabic writing on the various crumbled buildings, possibly Syria by the looks of the devastation. It is Aleppo, Syria and it looked like a few had either stayed or returned to make improvised homes in the wreckage. “Of all fucking places?” He quickly ducks behind a cracked concrete wall – he was barefoot, bare-chested and wearing ripped Christmas pajamas carrying a pistol, he guessed whoever was left, let it be soldiers or rebels or residents - they wouldn’t take too kindly to an armed 6’4, tattooed American just popping up. “Leave supplies,” he tells the demons as they pucker their faces in disapproval, “just do as I say!” He demands, he had been granted limited power and it could be considered “dark”, perhaps these were soldiers. Or Perhaps they were just hungry families trying to restore.

    He directs the demons several times to teleport them elsewhere but they simply shrug their gross little shoulders and hold up gnarled fingers, indicating they must wait. “Great,” he says, squatting down behind a chunk of concrete, he would just wait until they revived enough to take him on. It was dark and there wasn’t anyone in the debris strewn streets.
    He would have been fine, if the little demons hadn’t decided to scamper across to the nearest group of men and tried to snatch his rifle – unsuccessfully by the way. The bearded man shouted in Arabic and set a couple shots off at the fleeing little monster before dashing after it himself. The first shots from the automatic weapon had hit the in-tact wall beside him but the fragments of block embedded into the skin of his left arm, pebbling deep into his flesh. He winced, pulling his pistol out and reading the chamber. Before the man turns the corner, Kratos is letting off shots and in the next blink they are elsewhere.

    At first, he thinks they have indeed reached the North Pole. But an ornately decorated sign told him otherwise. This time they are in Norway, Oslo to be exact. Known world-round for its deep appreciation and lavish celebration of Christmas. The snow is deep and the quaint little homes could not be more perfectly decorated than by Santa’s Elves themselves – except for the battling neighbors that tore at each other’s decorations or throats. Here, the battle raged and it surprised him a bit that any of the picturesque neighbors here would side with the Grinch. Two men are beating back a man that is trailed by little Grinch demons and he sends a blast of green-explosives towards the lavishly decorated home. It was a little fun. He sends a flash of green fire across two large decorated Christmas trees with huge baubles. Elves are heading for him as he sends another wave of green fire at a display of gifts and a fake Santa sleigh. But before anything can make connection they are teleported again.

    Now he stands, bleeding and covered in ash and tinsel, before Santa’s Workshop.




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