05-23-2014, 07:01 AM
The people around Dane wavered like blades of grass bending beneath the same breeze. Dane remained in his spot, wedged between a vertical hand pole and a row of seats. Himself included with the blades of grass, they all turned to acknowledge one speaking to them. The priest at the pulpit, Jon, and they the obedient congregation.
He spoke of the Sickness, but he had no need to convince Dane of the dark secret. The Sickness had been a rebirth. Strangely, the experience was the greatest misery of his life, yet ever since, neither infection nor disease had touched him again. How did Jon know it wasn't contagious? And Dane was hardly a youth when the first fever wracked his bones. This man commanded much faith in his flock, and it darkened Dane's expression with a haunted focus. This American was bred from the same stock as any of his boyhood oppressors: domineering, annoying despots.
When Jon fell, limp as the dead Katya beside him, the hush on the train became a collective gasp. Strangers grabbed one another's arms, panic ripped across wide eyes, and while the train slowed to a stop, nobody moved. Until someone uttered these fatal words: "He has it too!" The doors opened but the accompanying chime was drowned out by the ensuing stampede. People screamed environmental! It's on the train! Don't breathe! and all sorts of rubbish.
Dane stood in the aftermath's vacuole. He brushed off his clothes and swept a hand across his hair. It seemed the crowd would not make their intended escape. The red and blue lights of police take-over were already on the platform. Likely summoned by the emergent calls after Katya's demise. Individuals were being harangued off to the side by a line of black-clad, shielded officers.
Dane had little time to make his own investigation. Was it too much to hope the creature had broke under his own strained powers?
He stood over the pair of bodies, investigating. The one that was once Katya had already fallen paler, like a doll. Jon's chest, however, was clearly still inhaling oxygen. What a disappointment. He could kick him in the face, but such would smudge his shoe. He could coil vines around his throat, but the pressure to hurry was too great to bend the Light to his will. Had he a knife, he could carve a mockingbird into the man's forehead; a red sketch down to the bone, and so forever brand him with the promise of eventual return. How sweet that pale, puckered flesh, vulnerable to anything Dane could imagine, would serve as canvas. How rare such an opportunity was! But, Dane was not free to take his time as he would like. He could, however, kneel, with his back to Thalia of course, and seemingly check the man's throat for a pulse.
Upon rising, he slipped a wad of black hair ripped by Dane's own hand into the pocket along with his other memento. A pleasing patch of red welled among the forest of remaining strands that covered his scalp. When he turned, his expression softened as it found sweet Thalia's fearful gaze. Like the true gentleman, he offered his hand to coax the sweet butterfly to her feet. He said nothing, but his arms and grim smile promised comfort. She could see the official tormentors were near to boarding the train. He spoke softly, innocent as the sweet she'd accepted earlier. "I won't let them hurt you. I swear on my life."
Dane looked over his shoulder. If she accepted within the next few moments, they could make it off the train before the chaos descended around the bodies on the floor.
He spoke of the Sickness, but he had no need to convince Dane of the dark secret. The Sickness had been a rebirth. Strangely, the experience was the greatest misery of his life, yet ever since, neither infection nor disease had touched him again. How did Jon know it wasn't contagious? And Dane was hardly a youth when the first fever wracked his bones. This man commanded much faith in his flock, and it darkened Dane's expression with a haunted focus. This American was bred from the same stock as any of his boyhood oppressors: domineering, annoying despots.
When Jon fell, limp as the dead Katya beside him, the hush on the train became a collective gasp. Strangers grabbed one another's arms, panic ripped across wide eyes, and while the train slowed to a stop, nobody moved. Until someone uttered these fatal words: "He has it too!" The doors opened but the accompanying chime was drowned out by the ensuing stampede. People screamed environmental! It's on the train! Don't breathe! and all sorts of rubbish.
Dane stood in the aftermath's vacuole. He brushed off his clothes and swept a hand across his hair. It seemed the crowd would not make their intended escape. The red and blue lights of police take-over were already on the platform. Likely summoned by the emergent calls after Katya's demise. Individuals were being harangued off to the side by a line of black-clad, shielded officers.
Dane had little time to make his own investigation. Was it too much to hope the creature had broke under his own strained powers?
He stood over the pair of bodies, investigating. The one that was once Katya had already fallen paler, like a doll. Jon's chest, however, was clearly still inhaling oxygen. What a disappointment. He could kick him in the face, but such would smudge his shoe. He could coil vines around his throat, but the pressure to hurry was too great to bend the Light to his will. Had he a knife, he could carve a mockingbird into the man's forehead; a red sketch down to the bone, and so forever brand him with the promise of eventual return. How sweet that pale, puckered flesh, vulnerable to anything Dane could imagine, would serve as canvas. How rare such an opportunity was! But, Dane was not free to take his time as he would like. He could, however, kneel, with his back to Thalia of course, and seemingly check the man's throat for a pulse.
Upon rising, he slipped a wad of black hair ripped by Dane's own hand into the pocket along with his other memento. A pleasing patch of red welled among the forest of remaining strands that covered his scalp. When he turned, his expression softened as it found sweet Thalia's fearful gaze. Like the true gentleman, he offered his hand to coax the sweet butterfly to her feet. He said nothing, but his arms and grim smile promised comfort. She could see the official tormentors were near to boarding the train. He spoke softly, innocent as the sweet she'd accepted earlier. "I won't let them hurt you. I swear on my life."
Dane looked over his shoulder. If she accepted within the next few moments, they could make it off the train before the chaos descended around the bodies on the floor.