Day Dreams [Single]
Posted: Tue Jan 31, 2023 4:51 am
The broken moon was red with the atmosphere, the ground was purple and black under it's unnatural light, and Copperfield's hand was crimson with blood.
He doubled over, coughing and hacking. He tasted more blood at the back of his throat. It splattered onto his hand before it leaked from between his fingers, dripping down onto her golden hair and lifeless face.
His breathing was ragged, something in his lungs blocking air. His fit was over for now, but he would have another soon. He had seen it before in many people. Firstly, his parents. But he had no choice but to ignore it for now.
"Sorry, Hem-" His throat tightened on her name. He tried again but couldn't say it. It hurt too much. "Sorry." He wiped the blood from her jacket and face. He accomplished only smearing it over her cute cheek. His vision blurred with tears and he coughed, filling his palm with blood once more. The ground rumbled with a sub-audible growl. A reminder of work to be done. He wanted to stay and hold her, but...
"D-don't worry. I'll finish it." He said, nodding to himself. Her expressionless, pale face gave nothing in response. "I just need something from you first." He reached into her belt holster and pulled out her trusty revolver. "Mine's broke, you see." He choked the words out. "Is that ok?"
As if in reply her jacket slid down her body a little, revealing the bullets on the other side of her belt. "Thanks, Hemera." Smiling, he was finally able to say her name. He took off her belt, a dull part of him noted that he would never be able to do that again, and replaced his with it. He parted her hair and gave her a last blood-soaked kiss on her forehead. The rumble came again. He gently laid her on the cold soft ground.
He slowly got to his feet and took a look around him. Dissolving Grimm corpses, grotesque beings of form and shape he hadn't witnessed until today, lying side-by-side volunteers and honorable fighters, men and women, who gave their lives for this campaign. Their weapons lay strewn about, some elegant and worthy of Huntsman status, some rudimentary weapons, guns and blades. But they fought for their homes, for the loved ones who had already been taken by this terrible Grimm disease, for their children.
Copperfield had equipped them all with gasmasks to keep out the contagion as they made their way closer to the Grimm's lair, but it didn't protect them. They broke. Malfunctioned. Were torn off. Most didn't die from the disease that racked their lungs though. Drowning in your own blood took too long compared to claws and fangs. Lesser Grimm prefer the short quick method. No one from his party had succumbed to the disease, but Copperfield would. He vowed that he would. The bodies of his enemies and allies lay strewn about him, with only the prize before him. He had the disease now, badly and it was rapidly taking him, being this exposed. But he'd kill the bastard Grimm, and then die of it's disease. It had killed thousands of people already. He'd be it's final victim and stop this plague.
It growled again, deep within it's shadowy lair. Copperfield's face tightened into a grimace of rage as he spun and fired two shots from her revolver into the darkness. Something screeched, though it was more surprise than pain.
"I'm coming, you ugly monster!" He said, popping the revolver open and replacing the used shells.
"I'm coming."
Copperfield blinked, and found himself staring down at Ol' Faithful. Her gun. He was cleaning it and had taken out the shells.
He set the gun down and rubbed his face. It was wet. Must've slipped off into his memories again. Scooted his chair out, that familiar screech of wood on wood filling the otherwise quiet apartment. He got up and walked to the window, opening it and sticking his head out to see the broken moon. It wasn't red anymore.
Not here.
He doubled over, coughing and hacking. He tasted more blood at the back of his throat. It splattered onto his hand before it leaked from between his fingers, dripping down onto her golden hair and lifeless face.
His breathing was ragged, something in his lungs blocking air. His fit was over for now, but he would have another soon. He had seen it before in many people. Firstly, his parents. But he had no choice but to ignore it for now.
"Sorry, Hem-" His throat tightened on her name. He tried again but couldn't say it. It hurt too much. "Sorry." He wiped the blood from her jacket and face. He accomplished only smearing it over her cute cheek. His vision blurred with tears and he coughed, filling his palm with blood once more. The ground rumbled with a sub-audible growl. A reminder of work to be done. He wanted to stay and hold her, but...
"D-don't worry. I'll finish it." He said, nodding to himself. Her expressionless, pale face gave nothing in response. "I just need something from you first." He reached into her belt holster and pulled out her trusty revolver. "Mine's broke, you see." He choked the words out. "Is that ok?"
As if in reply her jacket slid down her body a little, revealing the bullets on the other side of her belt. "Thanks, Hemera." Smiling, he was finally able to say her name. He took off her belt, a dull part of him noted that he would never be able to do that again, and replaced his with it. He parted her hair and gave her a last blood-soaked kiss on her forehead. The rumble came again. He gently laid her on the cold soft ground.
He slowly got to his feet and took a look around him. Dissolving Grimm corpses, grotesque beings of form and shape he hadn't witnessed until today, lying side-by-side volunteers and honorable fighters, men and women, who gave their lives for this campaign. Their weapons lay strewn about, some elegant and worthy of Huntsman status, some rudimentary weapons, guns and blades. But they fought for their homes, for the loved ones who had already been taken by this terrible Grimm disease, for their children.
Copperfield had equipped them all with gasmasks to keep out the contagion as they made their way closer to the Grimm's lair, but it didn't protect them. They broke. Malfunctioned. Were torn off. Most didn't die from the disease that racked their lungs though. Drowning in your own blood took too long compared to claws and fangs. Lesser Grimm prefer the short quick method. No one from his party had succumbed to the disease, but Copperfield would. He vowed that he would. The bodies of his enemies and allies lay strewn about him, with only the prize before him. He had the disease now, badly and it was rapidly taking him, being this exposed. But he'd kill the bastard Grimm, and then die of it's disease. It had killed thousands of people already. He'd be it's final victim and stop this plague.
It growled again, deep within it's shadowy lair. Copperfield's face tightened into a grimace of rage as he spun and fired two shots from her revolver into the darkness. Something screeched, though it was more surprise than pain.
"I'm coming, you ugly monster!" He said, popping the revolver open and replacing the used shells.
"I'm coming."
Copperfield blinked, and found himself staring down at Ol' Faithful. Her gun. He was cleaning it and had taken out the shells.
He set the gun down and rubbed his face. It was wet. Must've slipped off into his memories again. Scooted his chair out, that familiar screech of wood on wood filling the otherwise quiet apartment. He got up and walked to the window, opening it and sticking his head out to see the broken moon. It wasn't red anymore.
Not here.