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[FIC] GW: Demons
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cozzybob, because she once said she wanted to read something gory and non-pairing from me. Hope this fills the criteria? ^^
Demons
Character/Pairing: Zechs
Rating: PG-13
Words: 412
Summary: Zechs, and his first encounter with death.
Blood, Zechs thinks, smells of metal.
He can feel the stickiness of it on his feet, even though it was covered by inches of polished leather and cotton. He can smell the blood, thick and cloying, dancing around his nostril and penetrating into his brain. If he just sticks out his tongue, Zechs muses, he can probably taste the blood. Red stains his vision, splattered all over a grey pavement, crimson heat pooling around a cooling body.
His hands aren’t shaking, his gun was held steady between slim fingers. His legs aren’t trembling, they’re steady, steady and unmoving and he’s not going to break down right now. So what if this is the first man he had shot? It wasn’t the first man he had killed, far from it.
But it is different, somehow. It was different in that this man has a face and Zechs can imagine his family, perhaps a wife and daughters? Sons? Does this man’s daughter look like Zechs’s little sister? Does his son look like Mill…Zechs? He has blonde hair, blonde hair streaked with grey and red and black and gods, is blood supposed to congeal this fast?
His heartbeat is roaring within his ears and he can’t hear anything else. The commander is shouting an order, he should listen to it. He should listen to orders and get away from this body that used to be a man who possibly had a wife and a son and a daughter. He should get away right now, stop thinking about the blood and there’s a hole in his chest.
I made that hole.
Zechs doesn’t know how he managed to move again, half-running, half-stumbling, towards the helicopter taking them back to headquarters. His eyes are wide, blue stark against a pale face, black sunglasses contrasting with his ash-white lips. He trips over himself, shaking hands holding the snub-nose pistol in his hand like a vice. Metal cuts into his hands, but there is no blood, and so he is fine.
The mission isn’t supposed to go this way. Nobody is supposed to die. Nobody. The man’s death at your hands, your own hands was a fluke, something that shouldn’t have happened but did anyway. It shouldn’t have happened, and so it didn’t. It didn’t happen.
I didn’t kill a man face to face. I didn’t.
I didn’t.
At night, huddled in his dorm and curled up in his bed Zechs dreams of blood and a monster with white-blonde hair.
End
cozzybob, because she once said she wanted to read something gory and non-pairing from me. Hope this fills the criteria? ^^Demons
Character/Pairing: Zechs
Rating: PG-13
Words: 412
Summary: Zechs, and his first encounter with death.
Blood, Zechs thinks, smells of metal.
He can feel the stickiness of it on his feet, even though it was covered by inches of polished leather and cotton. He can smell the blood, thick and cloying, dancing around his nostril and penetrating into his brain. If he just sticks out his tongue, Zechs muses, he can probably taste the blood. Red stains his vision, splattered all over a grey pavement, crimson heat pooling around a cooling body.
His hands aren’t shaking, his gun was held steady between slim fingers. His legs aren’t trembling, they’re steady, steady and unmoving and he’s not going to break down right now. So what if this is the first man he had shot? It wasn’t the first man he had killed, far from it.
But it is different, somehow. It was different in that this man has a face and Zechs can imagine his family, perhaps a wife and daughters? Sons? Does this man’s daughter look like Zechs’s little sister? Does his son look like Mill…Zechs? He has blonde hair, blonde hair streaked with grey and red and black and gods, is blood supposed to congeal this fast?
His heartbeat is roaring within his ears and he can’t hear anything else. The commander is shouting an order, he should listen to it. He should listen to orders and get away from this body that used to be a man who possibly had a wife and a son and a daughter. He should get away right now, stop thinking about the blood and there’s a hole in his chest.
I made that hole.
Zechs doesn’t know how he managed to move again, half-running, half-stumbling, towards the helicopter taking them back to headquarters. His eyes are wide, blue stark against a pale face, black sunglasses contrasting with his ash-white lips. He trips over himself, shaking hands holding the snub-nose pistol in his hand like a vice. Metal cuts into his hands, but there is no blood, and so he is fine.
The mission isn’t supposed to go this way. Nobody is supposed to die. Nobody. The man’s death at your hands, your own hands was a fluke, something that shouldn’t have happened but did anyway. It shouldn’t have happened, and so it didn’t. It didn’t happen.
I didn’t kill a man face to face. I didn’t.
I didn’t.
At night, huddled in his dorm and curled up in his bed Zechs dreams of blood and a monster with white-blonde hair.
End