Description: After being retrieved by Igniz for sake of expanding upon his curiosity about the famous Howard Rust - and to pay him a boon, at least according to the master of NESTS - the pipe-wielding Kyokugen fighter is taken to one of NESTS' facilities in the North Pole. Things go quickly awry when the man of the hour does not quite seem to have gotten the memo (or much recollection of recent events) as to what things are going on around him. A young, nameless NESTS loyalist becomes an unlikely ally in what trials and horrors await beyond the mere escaping of one's laboratory. An old friend is destroyed, and yet found intact by one's curious criteria of their identity... and some things end up beyond the reach of mortal comprehension.
The room is white.
Bright lights, all around. White instruments. White robotic arms, moving around, scanning and adjusting. White wires, white tables. The only thing breaking the white is the countless vials and containers of fluids, positioned around the other deviant of the white. A pink, older man, stout in body, thin in hair, bound in white thermal bandages, laying on the table. His head is free from any hairpiece. His eyes are shut, and countless IVs, wires, and sensors pepper his motionless body. White cameras, and external sensors, look down on him, as well as a white-clad scientist, looking down from an observation window.
And beside him, a black-clad teenager, without any name.
The boy stands at attention quietly, the drone of an EKG and computers hum in the background. The scientist, balding in the middle, white hair in wild tuffs on the side, looks on with black googles, crooked teeth twisted into a mad grin. Hovering around the control panel, a large, holographic screen projects just in front of the observation window, showing biological diagnostics of the patient. Colored columns go up and down, with a piechart changing sizes as the scientist works. The teenager silently looks onward, before he asks. "Which experiment will we be conducting on this subject, sir?" The scientist raises his head, having been woken up from his monomanical focus. But instead of anger, there was delight as he turns towards the teenager, and answers breathlessly.
"The Phoenix Procedure, child."
Staring down at the test subject, he steeples his fingers, licking his lips. The pale teenager pries more, curious about the matter. "What is the Phoenix Procedure?" The scientist cackles sinisterly. "That... that is something we don't even understand fully. The goals are clear. Achieving constant, endless immortality, without requiring the cloning process. We've had previous progress before, until it was stolen by... outside forces. Criminal forces, without any vision. The previous experts were lost along with that prototype technology. But fortunately, we have knowledge that the technology was tested, and WAS successful. The Phoenix Procedure is necessary to recreate that technology, and push it... furthur." The teenager tilts his head. "I do not understand why I need to remain on hand then, sir." The scientist babbles, increasing the red column on the holographic projection. "No, no, we may need you."
"In case the subject goes berserk."
A large robotic arm moves over the motionless form of the older man. Clutching a number of needles, it dribbles a clear fluid. "You see, we have not had success with The Phoenix Procedure. 70% lethality rate on the table, 60% fatality in post-operation due to complications, and any that make it past that state, we've always had to exterminate them. The subjects cannot seem to understand the power infused with them... and how that power requires responsibility. Obedience. They just seem to get so angry, like a stray dog."
"We must put down strays, child."
The teenager peers to the side, a small side table in the obsevation room. On it, laid the belongings collected when the man was... recovered. A heap of clothing, a toolbelt. Ol' Rusty lays amongst the belongings, along with a fat ring of keys, and an always malnourished wallet. Oddly missing was the infamous toupee. "This seems to be different from many of our usual subjects." The teenager states, picking up the pipe. "He is so... big." The scientist dismisses the statement. "Our Lord and Master insisted that this subject be blessed with the Phoenix Procedure. And his will be done. And this one certainly seems capable of surviving the operation procedure. Look at these vitals!" The scientist scurries to a nearby panel, calling up several new diagnostics on the holoscreen. Nameless, pokes the boots of the old man, still toying with the pipe. The scientist, looking back over to Nameless, shakes his head. "Oh, those things. My subject will not need those, in his new life. If you want to make yourself useful, just dump them in the incinerator. The boy looks over to the medical disposal container. With hardly a thought, he picks up the rest of the belongings, and drops them, one by one, into the bin. Pushing it down with the pipe, he finally shoves the pipe itself into the bin. Shutting it, he hits a button. The sound of locking is heard, and then, it begins to hum, as intense heat is brought within.
"It is taken care of, sir."
It's something of a wonder the subject came in here largely intact. If the reports (any that might have been shared) were to be believed, he has somehow survived two of the most divine expressions of Igniz's ascendant power over the lifeblood of the Earth itself - maybe just even barely so. Most lesser than himself would be atomized. (Some even greater!) He is a most curious individual indeed. For whatever reason - of biological, of spiritual, of some yet undiscovered measuring stick that science has yet to define, he largely endures. Something that transcends reason. Could the truth of the matter be so romanticized as to be considered grounds for legend, of whispers among generations?
Science is not a place for song or myth. There are so many questions that a man this unique stands to answer, just by being - an opportunity that shouldn't go to waste. A body ravaged by lacerations and barely patched-over burns of both hot and cold, nearly broken by several instances of intense concussive forces, it certainly took some time for him to be stabilized. So long as there is a living body, few things are beyond NESTS' reach. The odds are, as a rule, generally on their side prior to any... interesting alterations.
That's when the bets are off, as so duly explained to the teenager on hand. Still, the table should be set. Every possible precaution, every possible forethought is in place.
White. It's all white. As far as the man's consciousness is concerned, it's more of an off-white, kind of yellow, as the bright lights try to burn their way through his eyelids into his eyes. It irritates. Irritation. As if his life were just one great obstruction, one tiny little thing, that goes wrong after another. The way he tries to just tough his way through it, all the same, even to his continued detriment.
Consciousness. Bright light. Irritation. Annoying. Something stirs in that addled mind of his, narrowly escaping lasting damage by oxygen deprivation while stuck in that pocket universe.
It's a subtle, easily missed cue, as relatively ordinary brown eyes dare to provide contrast the pinkness of his patched-up body. They close again, as if to shut out the light - only to open again because it's so bright.
Those eyes cannot find satisfaction in any state.
"...ghm...rkf," he all but silently chokes out. Shapes. There are shapes that somehow move in the endless white that try to pin him. Endless numbness - only shapes. Colors. Colors start to return, even as he instinctively tries to blink his eyes shut to shut out the light that cannot be shut out.
Colors and shapes. Unable to find a happy medium otherwise, he squints instinctively. Sharpness. Details. People... moving...? Through the observational window, he catches a glint-- no, a color. It can't possibly glint, in the state it's...
That length, it's...
His eyes widen. His lips curl back unevenly, numbness still present on his face from the series of tentacle-like strikes to his face. He's awake.
Fear. Anger? He's awake. He's awake. His breathing suddenly becomes labored as he struggles to suck in air. One of his lungs had nearly collapsed entirely as a result of his injuries - a near-save by NESTS medical sciences. He seems apt to stress it to its utmost limits as sensation slowly returns to him through his extremities from the daze.
"I-I'm not dead, h-hey, hey," he starts to protest, "y-you guys didn't take my... liver yet, did you, hey, I, I know it says I'm a don--"
He struggles against his bindings, wincing as his movements incite further intrusion by the IV needles placed in him - why the hell does he have so many?
"Uhh, this, this isn't the first time I've been confused for, uh... for... l-look, lemme," he babbles somewhat incoherently, painting a slightly horrifying picture about his past medical history with would-be coroners, when he suddenly sees a glint of reddish-orangish light. He knows what that is - how many times has he had to use one of those?
An incinierator. In it's, going...
Something wells up within him. Emotion, probably. Maybe it's an extra dose of tranqulizers or painkillers upon the revelation that he's... awake. Both. Something, all right, happens.
"I-I said," his voice builds up intensity, "I'm... I'm not," he winces as he coughs once. Desperation, then, desperation of-- what is he despairing about? Wasn't it made clear to him about by the great Igniz as to what would happen? Could he have forgott--
"DEAD," he puts emphasis on that word as he growls, making something of a scene of his restraints as he tries to force himself to a sitting position. It's not easy - these are some of the best restraints, if not the best, available to anyone. It doesn't seem like he's going to win out against them, and yet...
He's awake, struggling to pull out, half-formed ideas flooding to his head beyond what he seems to think by reflex is an honest misunderstanding... or whatever compels him to believe he's having a liver extracted.
A klaxon sounds.
The subject was awakening. The teenage looks down, as the alarm goes off. The patient was moving, trying to rip himself free. The restraints are ripped free as Rust rises. The aging man may not realize it, but the strength he had was well beyond even what the NESTS technology could keep up with. The teenager was not ready to allow him to escape. Bringing his arm up, his quicksilver glove begins to dance.
But the scientist holds up a hand.
He was calm. Almost mirthful, tittering to himself. "Don't worry, Nameless. They always fight, when they awaken. Ha haha! It is part of the spirit required for the Phoenix Procedure. Our lord and savior is always very observent on finding suitable subjects that are strong in mind and body. He is no exception. Fortunately, we have methods in subduing them. Many, many methods."
"All of them involve nerve agents, of course."
As he says this, he strikes a button on the panel. Immediately, a thin mist of chemicals begins to fill the air within the white room. The arms move, the claw-like appendages attempting to grip the awakening Rust Howard. Whether they get grips on him, allowing him to be impaled with the arm-like needles to add more sedatives in him, it won't matter.
There are even more measures to be used.
There is a loud, sharp hiss. Several black, mechanical tentacles burst from white domes from the ceiling, slithering out across. More bursts come from the walls, and even right underneath the table that Rust was on. Winding around the table, they are like snakes, attempting to wrap themselves around Rust. To restrain Rust. To force their sedative-filled tips into him. Already, they were dripping with the poisonous fluids, ready to strike. The scientist above wringes his hands together, looking down from the observation window.
This was always his favorite part.
It takes him at least two attempts to get out, but when he does, it's a series of cascading failures. He even seems a little off-balance by this. His strength returns to him far sooner than might be anticipated even in a sudden awakening. It can be handwaved as simple adrenaline, as much as... panic.
He scowls at the alarm klaxons. What kind of morgue has alarm klaxons? His head aches as spots color his vision where he was nearly blinded by the lights, eardrums already worn down by years of near-constant exposure to loud machinery ringing. He holds his head in his right hand for a while.
Hissing fills the room. An odd color tints the white walls, to the corners of his vision. Something... tries to grab his shoulder? He waves out his left arm against it, turning his head as though wondering if he might've accidentally hit a perso--
There aren't people around him here. His mouth goes slightly agape. The thoughts going through him should be predictable and obvious. Something about hell and his relative location, probably. Definitely.
The mechanical snake-like arms that encompass him do try their hardest - as much as soulless machines can really ever try hard at anything - to hold him. He can feel a jabbing all around his body. Is that a smile? Wait. Tickling? Any seeming amusement is quickly discarded in the wake of something shouted that is lost to the klaxons, as they try to inject him with sedatives.
Therein lies the problem with the man and those times he has to go get any sort of injection, be it blood tests for a physical, or some sort of medication. Every time, an acupuncture expert has to come in. It's too tough to get needles into him, even when about as relaxed as he can be.
In his state of agitation, it's just not possible to get any new needle holes in him. His unconsciousness was their only shot, their only chance. What had already gone through him prior to his awakening is about all they can directly inject.
It wasn't enough before, as is blatantly obvious. The only thing these snake-like appendages seem to do is annoy him. Tickling. He wriggles violently in their hold, for a time, until he gets one of his legs free of the mass of them.
His heel comes down upon them violently. The words can be read from his mouth even as the klaxons drown him out. They are curiously accusatory, rather than demanding, and if such a record is put down might be a funny anecdote to share with colleagues once the gasses flooding the room stop hi--
...It should be stopping him, slowing him down as he tears himself free with sheer violence. The moment his arms are free, it's too late for the physical restraints to hold him. The gas should see him slow down immediately. The breathable oxygen levels were reaching a dangerous low for sake of drowning him out.
With a snort, Howard helps himself up, only using the table for support to stretch out one of his legs to make sure he can walk. He dares to take in a deep breath, which is foolhardy and should accelerate the process. These chemicals are designed, to perfection, to incapacitate... or worse. He is a human being. He should share all the same ultimate physical weaknesses a human body has to these chemical agents.
He shakes his head once, as if in disbelief, and helps himself towards the closest thing that looks like a door to his presently impaired vision, throwing up his hands in seeming frustration. It looks less like a man fighting for his life, and more a man so completely aggravated he is washing his hands of a situation. He does not appear to be appreciably slowed.
He balls up a fist against the door - or what he thinks is a door. Open up, he's probably saying. I don't want to... he doesn't want to what? His mouth movements aren't clear, as he taps a foot against the bottom of the door a few times.
Bending down, he puts both of his hands near where his foot struck... that's what he did five years ago when he was in that forward base during the invasion. With what strength he has, he starts to pull upward in the attempt to open the door up, up, and up to let himself out as the nerve gas concentration no doubt starts to hit a potentially lethal concentration.
Such power.
Despite the statement from the scientist, Nameless was not so sure about how easily the patient would go down. As both the tentacles and robot arms come, he watches as they are unable to control him. As the needles drive in uselessly, he tightens his gloved hand into a fist nervously. As he breaks apart the tentacles, however, he begins to rush towards the door down below. Nothing was slowing him down.
Why wasn't anything slowing him down?
"Don't worry, child." Calls out the scientist, stopping the teenager cold. Turning around, the smirking old man chuckles to himself. "That cocktail is suitable to bring down any of our bioweapons; he may be a fine specimin of a man, but he is just a man. That door is designed to survive a complete energy meltdown; it could endure a nuclear blast. And the only way of controlling it is through this panel." The man motions towards a large switch. "We will wait him out. And if he overdoses, well" The man shrugs.
"Another statistic, I suppose."
The scientist was still relaxed, as he looks down as Rust continues to uselessly try and force his way through the door. Depsite this, the teenager was not so certain. Glancing back into the window, he looks at the remains of the mechanical tentacles, still flailing about, spewing the thick fluid across the floor. And then, a thought dawns on him.
"What about this window, sir?"
The scientist scoffs. "You really are worried about this?" He asks contemptously. "This window is unbreakable by any mere man. Perhaps if it was a god, but well, we do not deal with gods here." The scientist presses his face near the glass, leering down at the man kicking down the door, merely 10 feet below.
He even taps on it a few times, waving down.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Rust tugs at the door with what might he has, recalling a similar situation from five years ago or so in the heat of the moment. He tugs, he pulls, he strains... he comically falls back on his bum after overexerting himself - or pulling something.
He murmurs something incomprehensible (in all fairness, everything is incomprehensible to the klaxons) as he dazedly looks back through the room. The window taps loudly enough to be heard, and the aging man's neck cranes upwards.
He frowns.
He walks back towards the table slowly, as though it would appear the reality of the situation is starting to sink in as the air grows ever thinner, the floor ever slicker with fluids spilling from the damaged tentacles. He bends down to the table... no, he's not going back on there. He appears to tap it a few times.
The implications of what should happen next are fairly obvious, and perhaps equally comical as that slip onto his rear end - if not horrifying in what level of desperation is about to be expressed. (Perhaps, even entertaining.)
He points one finger towards the glass with his right hand as he kicks a foot at whatever holds the table in place. Any hydraulics that keep it there, anything at all that stops it from being forcibly removed, well... he appears intent to forcibly remove it. One might say... motivated.
Moving towards the head, knocking over some miscellaneous tubes and IV bags and other expensive-looking medical devices, he crouches down behind it with a serious crink in both of his knees. Well, that might be assumed, anyway, given the pause, as he suddenly thrusts his left hand upward, balled into a tight fist.
It is a cacophony of loosened, weakened steel giving way. Three more times... and it flips upwards into a vertical stand. It does ask of those who might be curious. How much oxygen does this man have left to summon such strength, as the nerve toxins continue to replace what breathable air there is?
Visibly, the aging man takes one step back, drawing back a leg... and jogs forward, sharply thrusting a kick upward about as high as the flexibility of his body might let him, moving to punt that entire examination table through the window if he can give it enough air height.
At worst case scenario, it might make a great stepping stone to try and hurl himself through the glass itself.
The scientist is no longer smirking.
Oh, he chuckled as Rust kicked the table free. But there is a shriek of terror as the table smashing against the window. He barely has time to flee, hurtling himself behind his workchair. Cowering, he stares at the window, pointing. "DO SOMETHING!" Hairline fractures had now spread across the window, the glass crunching against the impact. The table doesn't even fall immediately; it takes it just as badly as the window, bending in half as it makes contact. The sheer
But it does not break through.
The teenager rushes to the sliding steel door, acting on orders. Reaching the keypad to unlock the door, he strikes several buttons on the keypad. The keypad beeps, and the door slowly begins to open. But scientist carefully emerges from behind his chair, scoffing. "You won't get out, child. You do not need to leave. I merely lost..." He adjusts his coat as he stands up straight. "Lost my composure. I have authority of my lab. I choose who leaves, and who lives. You will not leave, boy. And this man." He looks down through the cracked glass. Through the thick fog of the nerve gas, he could see the outline of Rust Howard. He just glared at the now weakening form of the man, that sneer spread well across his face.
"This man will not live."
Howard Rust's form slowly disappears from sight as the concentration of the nerve gas approaches total. This man, who has so far somehow beaten the odds, somehow moved as though the nerve gas weren't affecting him - as though ignorant of what it is that he breathes in, that he welcomes into his system with every breath. This may well start to encroach on suspension of disbelief.
Perhaps an outside observer might think that some joker replaced the nerve gas with some novelty colored fog.
The aging American man falls to his knees within the final moments of the nerve gas's visibility, hand over their face. No, this seems more like it, now. The inevitable end. He appears to look up towards the glass, blearily, for what details are left to make out of him. It all seems to fall towards silence outside of the rhythmic screams of the klaxon and the hissing that gains eventual intensity as it threatens to snuff out even the slightest sign of a pulse.
A single echo of something hitting the ground is heard - Howard's right hand, opened in a palm, as he slaps the ground in what could be resignation. This is it. As the scientist says, that man will not live. He chooses who leaves, and who lives.
...
...
...
Something moves in the fog? No, that's just a hallucination, maybe a break in the thick color of the nerve agents as it renders the very air opaque, to fog up against the cracked glass as--
Howard's form becomes visible in a split second. One forearm is held up vertically, fist tensed, the other arm above and back. One knee is gently raised as his trajectory comes up to the glass from below, barely even extended outward, as the other is pointed low and in a completely irrelevant direction for the way he's flying.
The scientist chooses who leaves, and who lives, perhaps, but at least one item on the list must be dispelled as a mere illusion - a bullet point they did not care to elaborate upon when he explained to his teenage cohort the terms of his rule over this laboratory.
No one said he had the right to choose who came flying through the window in the most awkward-looking flying kick ever seen.
In that brief split second, the scientist's eyes goes wide.
The teenager has just enough time to turn around. He can take three steps, moving towards the scientist. But it is not enough. With a crash, the hulking form of the middle-aged man, clad in those white bandages, hurls right through that unbreakable glass to deliver the mother of kicks straight to the scientist. The begoggled man is sent spiking through the air, smashing straight into the row of computers behind him. Immediately, sparks fly as the man becomes electrocuted, before collapsing to the ground, smoke rising from his burnt back.
This was not authorized.
The black-clad boy looks down at the scientist, eyes wide, jaw slack, as the strangely-colored fog rolls in after Rust Howard. The smell of ozone and rotten fruit hang in the air. The boy positions himself between the doorway to the rest of the complex, and the man who just did the impossible. Body erect. Eyes straight. And holding his quicksilver glove up.
He does not say a word.
Howard lands in a rough crouch, left hand pointed downward to pull him up as he coughs exactly twice. He should be sputtering. He should be gasping. He shouldn't be... terribly animated, if that was his last gasp.
Even more shocking about the last several seconds isn't just how a man somehow endured - no, more like completely disregarded - the conditions of the air of the room he just escaped from, even as the nerve gas wafts into the observation room from the now shattered window. It goes beyond bracing oneself to hold their breath (which he clearly did not) - it is as though he out and out dispelled the notion of the air's very toxicity... and not just that...
It is how he somehow has the mind, even through such physical duress, to empathically wince at the man's elecrifying, painful end. For someone who was no doubt seconds away from succumbing to the toxins that he now brings in with him, he appears genuinely upset.
"Th-that's why I... I pointed at the fucking win--" His stance slumps slightly, as though perhaps all the tranquilizers, all the chemical cocktails they put into him in the lead-up to this very moment might be inching their grip back into him...
He exhales loudly, lwoering his head as he turns to eye the teenager who glares upon him, quicksilver glove raised and at the ready. Howard just shakes it... as though saying hello? Needing to be steadier on his feet with someone's help?
"Look, I-- just, just let me get my stuff, which... which you didn't... burn, right," he looks a ways over to the side - where are his things, "I, I dunno, if, if you call an mbulance or--"
Is he even aware of where he's stuck right now? He seems out of it - as though uninterested - in whatever threat the nameless young man before him seems to present. Or, could it be, after such a display... does he even consider him one?
It's hard to tell, his own gaze comparatively unfocused. "When did--"
The boy was ready for anything.
Anything except Rust shaking his hand.
As the man shakes his hand, he glances down at the hand quickly. Snapping his eyes back up to Rust, he scowls, giving a sharp jerk free from the grips. "Silence." He states flatly. "Your stuff does not matter." He points to the closed bin, still humming away.
"It has been destroyed." The teenager draws back his quicksilver'd hand, the form of a drill whirling around it. The scientist was still not moving. The klaxon was still wailing. And the door was open. He was the only thing standing between Rust having an opportunity to escape, and him being exterminated. At this point, the Phoenix Procedure was not gonna happen. "You no longer need it. You are going rogue. You yourself will be des... des...."
"... *cough*"
The teenager blinks hard, maintaining his focus on Rust. But the mist was beginning to fill the room, wanting to pass by him, to pass through the open door, into the rest of the complex. The nerve toxin was a sedative to people like the teenager. It was to stop people like him. His body was beginning to tremble, weakness overtaking. "I will... I will..."
His legs fall out, the boy collasping.
The demand to be silent is met with a blank stare. The 'stuff' being destroyed is met with... a blanker stare? He turns to it sharply, reaching out with a hand as he realizes what that just might all mean. Kyokugen uniform and brown belt, gone-- but given the huge stock of unsold uniforms from an accidental over-order, maybe not a tragedy outside of any sentimental value.
Wallet... how many times has someone absconded with that? How many times has he had to replace credit cards or lost IDs... to say nothing of all the cellphones of the world that are now far too small for his fingers... or the lost keys, of which he knows the landlord is going to get extra-cross with him, or... losing the car keys...
...Or that thing he put on his scalp... a hand goes up to his head, taps at it...
...Or...
The teenager's coughing suddenly snaps him back to something approaching reality, for a man who does not appear to quite grasp what is going on. Considering the condition he came coming here, what does his mind default to? He remembers he took... something... hard... it's not unreasonable to think he might've accidentally ended up at a morgue...
Howard waves his hand against the toxin that's filling the room, a wince at both the smell, the...
"Christ, what's even with--" He finally faces the teenager again, and his eyes widen, "--shit, we-we're not--"
WE'RE not? Does he mean... HE'S not?
No, that's an actual, intended 'we' as he moves to try and hoist Nameless up - potential physical protests permitting - to hoist him along out through the one open door he can see. He murmurs something that can't quite be heard over the klaxons.
"G-Gotta... gotta find it," he says with some urgency even when mumbling almost under his breath, waving a free hand to shoo what gas wafts his way while carrying the two of them out.
Nameless is not able to resist, his body going limp.
Helpless in Rust's hand, he groans idly as he is lifted up into his arms. And like that, Rust is able to carry the pair of them out into the rest of the complex. Klaxon roaring, gas coming out. This was a breach, a disaster.
But what was gonna contain it.
The round, green-grey hallways are long, and slowly turn towards the right. Every so often, a sliding doorway interrupts the passage. Each one is locked with a palm-print pad. The klaxon continues throughout the complex, echoing through. But the question was where could Rust go? It was not long before the guards would arrive. It was not long before Nameless would wake up.
It was not long before Rust would run out of time.
Where do they even go? It's written all over the man's face, looking almost entirely dumbstruck where he is. "Where do we even--"
He just keeps walking, as though believing at minimum that just keeping some sort of minimum distance between the two of them and that nasty foul-smelling gas is enough. One of his knees creak under the duress as he staggers along at a decent clip.
Every so often, a hand runs across some piping along the way.
"No," he murmurs, every time.
"No," it's like... trying to pick something out? Why? They are all the exact same. Identical in measurements, in length, in function... is he looking for a way out through them? He can't squeeze through them. They're too small--
A door slams before him, seeing him wince as it nearly takes his hand off. "H-Hey, how do you open--"
Palm print? "H-Hey, can you get--"
He tries to apply Nameless' hand to the lock, as though assuming he'd have the clearance, or some way to get the two of them through. This man's sense of urgency should be far greater than it actually is, at least on the surface. After going through... that... who knows how this man even thinks, any more.
Maybe there was some residual brain damage from oxygen deprivation after all? That, or he just hasn't... somehow... put two and two together.
"I think, just... just past there," he vaguely gestures with his free hand, not being entirely clear as to what he's thinking, or what's exactly past there...
"Uuuuahn?"
The teenager moans a bit, as Rust takes his hand. The klaxon was continuing. But there are no guards still. Placing the palm on the pad, there is a beeping sound. Slowly, the door opens. The boy continues to mumble, gradually rousing awake. "Where... where am I. What happened?"
And within, Rust can smell blood.
There is only light from the hallway. There are no bodies inside the observation room. Only splatters of blood on the floor, on the walls, on the ceilings. All the electronics hum, images flickering. The klaxon continues. There are a few guns lying on the ground, without owners. Something happened in this room. And past the panel, there was a clearing, encased in glass, in a sterile room, just like the kind of room that Rust was held in.
And in the center of it?
A laser grid.
Within the laser grid?
A glass tube.
Within the tube?
A forceshield.
And within the forceshield, suspended in the center of the shield?
A hairpiece.
It is not Rust's hairpiece.
"Uh... y'know, if you asked me, I just, uh... woke up, strapped to... somethi-- thanks," he helpfully explains through stuttering and mumbling, briefly finding time to thank his tag-along for helping open the door, "you guys tried to, uh... to take my liver, or... or something, probably 'cause... 'cause I came off as, ah, dead, or... look, sometimes I just get all... all tense, right, and then I get knocked out, and... uhh, that's happened before."
...
He slows down a little for Nameless' sake as he steps into the room, turning to face him.
"Look, that's... that's an honest mistake, but, then, uh... other things... happened," he tries to summarize best he can given the klaxons are still ringing in his ears, "you pass-" He sniffs. He snorts. He frowns. Then, his eyes catch up with what his nose finds.
Blood.
Guns.
"...Then... then, uh. Where the hell are we?" Storytime comes to an abrupt end as he stands a little taller, a little more tense, a bit more... aware? He squints as he tries to tilt his head so he can see past the laser grid. "What's--"
The hairpiece does not move.
The teenager eyes roll in his skull, the boy slowly recovering. That was powerful poison. He was barely recovering, barely breathing. They needed strong stuff to stop a choice clone assassin, and only the best was served at NESTS. As Rust stammers in confusion, the boy looks up at what he was talking about. And he groans an answer.
"Oh -no-"
And the hairpiece moves.
The long hairs of the hairpiece begins to lengthen swiftly. Already, the forcefield begins to flicker, the hairpiece.... testing it. Attacking it. It does not take long for the forcefield to suddenly erupt in a burst of energy. The hair smash against the glass, cracking it instantly. There is more strikes against it, hairlike tendrils piercing through the weaknesses of the glass. The entire tube is shuddering now, as the teenager grabs Rust by the arm. Looking up with him with bloodshot eyes, he says only one thing.
"Run."
"...Huh." Howard points a hand out as he tries to bring to light something the teenager already knows, as though he has to ask if that thing moving there is something he's aware of, because...
"Y-Yeah, that's, that's," is he agreeing, or... yeah, he's agreeing as he visibly flinches, turns around, and starts to stumble along to a short sprint over himself as though forgetting the very slight difference in elevation of the doorway they crossed, either keeping Nameless in tow or being dragged himself.
The differences between their two movement speeds will probably soon become patently obvious as he eyes the pipelines in the corridor - or whatever else things are drawing his attention en-route to getting the hell out of dodge
The glass is heard shattering, as Rust turns to run.
The teenager struggles to move his legs along with Rust. But hitting the elevated doorway gets only a pained moan from him. The strange colored fog begins to fill the main hallway. The klaxon continues. There is a burning smell now, the smell of burning hair.
Someone has come out of one of the other rooms.
It is one of the soldier guards, body clad in biosealed body armor, face clad in a full gasmask. But he was not armed. Instead, he was groping around, staggering out. There was a muffled screaming sound from him, as he stumbles around. His gloved hands clawing at his mask, he staggers towards the pair, before taking a sharp turn, smashing into a nearby pipe. Falling on his back, he manages to rip off the mask.
His face is covered in hair.
Short hair, growing from every surface. His cheeks. His ears. His nose. From his very eyes, black hair was jutting forth. His neck was covered in the black hair, and judging from the meeting point, it was growing below there. He was trying to say something, trying so hard to communicate something. But there is hair on his lips, his tongue... and all the way down his throat. He was choking on the hair. He was flailing on the ground, as suddenly, just as suddenly.
The klaxon stops.
Together, the two of them mount about the closest thing to an escape they can manage in such circumstances. Howard skids on his bare feet against a floor that feels a little slicker than when he last wandered down the corridor completely dumbstruck about his situation, where he is, what he's doing there... just to come short of running into that heavily armored guard.
Some semblance of a stance prepares itself, left forearm bending inward as if on the defensive, stepping back as they slam themselves into the pipe.
"Uhh, hey," Howard casts an odd sideglance, "j-just so you know there's a whoa."
Just that.
"WHOA." All capitals, there, as he visibly flinches, hand on the pipe that the heavily armored guard just crashed into - maybe more for his support as the flailing leg nearly takes his shin out underneath him. The pipe creaks a bit in his grasp.
"O-Okay, what... you guys, uh, you don't... you don't take... livers here, do you, what on Earth i--" He babbles incoherently as he gives a sharp look over to his teenage... ally? Fellow sightseer? He snorts again. "That... smell..."
The man suddenly freezes up.
Head tilting to the side, the flailing stopping. The soldier is silent, as the nerve gas continues to spread on the hallway floor. The smell of burning hair grows stronger.
"We destroyed everything on you, except..."
The teenager swallows hard, struggling to stand alone. Throwing a quicksilver hand on the pipe, he pulls hard, ripping it free. Steam rushes out, as he swallows hard, arms spasming. "We have seen it before, it... it cannot be destroyed. We need to get outside."
"It can't survive out in the cold.
Nameless begins to stagger forward, limping along as he keeps balance on the wall. "It must have been... why no one came to stop you..." The teenager sighs, leaning over to vomit on the side. He was sweating hard now. For a brief second, the klaxon comes on again, in a single blare. It stops almost as aruptly, as the lights suddenly go out. The red haze of emergency lights return on, fog pooling at their feet.
Very slowly, the soldier begins to stand back up above the mist.
The steam that rushes forth from the ruptured pipe, and Rust draws back a hand as it threatens to scald him. Actually, no he seems to have second thoughts, as though all of a sudden he wouldn't mind a bit of warmth. He is, technically, one set of thermal bandages away from being naked.
Not that any part of this situation invites comfort, as he seems to be one step behind in really cognizing where he is and what's going on, as the nameless one narrates what wasn't destroyed.
"W-Wait, you mean," he doesn't get time to earn a clarification as the nature of what he probably already knows it is, mouth agape, "outside, in the... cold, uh--"
Nameless staggers and vomits, and Howard comes over to pat a hand on his back as he looks back over his shoulder. "Y-Y'know what, I think I'm... I'm, uh, gonna chance... frostbite, let's," he coughs once, clearing his throat, "'scuse me, let's... get outta here--"
Howard doesn't bother to look behind him as he helps the teenager along. His left hand comes up to his forehead, massaging it. Confusion. Fogginess. The pooling gasses. He frowns as he looks back over to the nameless one along the way.
"So, uh... you guys wanted my liver that... that bad, or--" Or what? "Uh... shit. Wait--"
There's no time to wait, as he is largely urged onwards, though something seems to catch his mind... maybe? He coughs again.
"They wanted to make you immortal."
That is what the teenager says, as he forces through the hallway. Silently, the soldier begins to stagger after the pair, too slow to catch up to them, even as the pair are wounded. The boy is nearly hopping on one foot, trying to move faster. "Our master was so impressed with you, that he wanted to grant you a gift. And you... you rejected it. We did not want your liver." He is silent for a moment, as he stops before a door.
"This way."
The teenager grabs the door, patting it as he tries to make it respond. "This is to the mess hall. The exit is that way." Placing his hand on against the door, the quicksilver glove begins to spread, filling the gap of the doorway with the icy substance. With a groan, the boy struggles with it.
A scratching sound fill the air.
Behind them, the soldier still lurches on, arms dangling loose at its side, face full of fur. But behind him, through the mist, there was movement in the dim red lights. The shadow of a long tentacle thrusts down the hallway, hitting the floor with a wet thump. The scratching noise grows louder as whatever is making it... drags itself closer and closer. The clone looks at Rust desperately.
"Help me."
Immortal? ...Huh. He mouths that aloud as he (foolishly) looks back to the horror that's catching up behind them. There's... there's a reason he rejected that, he's sure, as he seems to slip in and out of rational comprehension. Right? Everything's sort of a blur after a point. He starts to ponder at probably the most inopportune time. Their master... okay, their master... uh.
The aging man shakes his head... and nods, "mess hall, exit, uh... shit. Shit. Shit." There was something important at the tip of his tongue. What is it? There is also something frightening beyond the guy crawling after them. What is it?
'Help me,' they ask, and the older guy turns about-face to put his hands on the door. "Okay, how do, how do I... shit. It's," he struggles ineffectually as his eyes wander back behind him, "it's...."
His eyes suddenly light up as he eyes a pipe running through the ceiling, which is absolutely no different from the other bits of pipe before it aside from its orientation being on the ceiling.
"It's... there. Ol' Rusty." He points up there. "Right... right there."
What? The pipe went into the--
Leaping up to the best of his ability, Howard struggles to pry the bit of pipe loose. It takes some doing, with his weight and a few hard tugs as steam finds a new opening in which to spill out into the doom- and gloom-filled hallway, as time runs short. Is this helping?
There's an odd flourish between the man's hands as he gets used to the weight, nodding once, lips pursed tightly. "R-Right... okay, I... I got this--"
Taking this new pipe he has somehow dubbed as the same name - it's actually a bit of piping in really, really good shape, made from clearly superior materials, manufactured with technology beyond the greater planet's understanding - one hand on one end, one near the other...
He thrusts it into the door with what strength he has to muster, to join in on the door battering at risk of helping break through maybe moments too late.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
That wasn't Ol' Rusty.
Ol' Rusty was dead.
And yet, in his hands, was Ol' Rusty. New Rusty. The boy moves aside, letting the older, stronger man get in position for leverage. The scratching sound grows louder and louder, as the shadows of tentacles grow larger. A large, tendril of bound hair rolls around the edge of the hallway, groping around the edge...
As Rust pries the door open.
A crack is made, just large enough for them to pass through. Nameless slips in first, entering the darkened mess hall. Forks and spoons are scattered across the floor, but otherwise, it is clean. The air here is fresh, and carreis the scent of roast beef and gravy.
There are people in here.
The tables are lined with about a dozen seperate NESTS employees, sitting at the table with food trays before them. Some are in lab coats, other in the soldier fatigues, in the dim lights. They are sitting erect at the long tables. They are not moving. They are not making a sound. They are just silent. Still. The teenager moves along quietly, sneaking along. Bringing a finger to his lips, he motions for Rust.
Stay quiet.
The criteria in which this man appears to decide what is or is not Ol' Rusty brings a whole lot of things about the last few minutes into question - questions probably best saved for later, or never at all, as the older man slips in behind Nameless, casting the horrors behind them one last, final glance.
He scrapes the top of his scalp against the frosted metal, brushing aside the strands of hair of that highly unconvincing combover that he used to attempt to fool people with before he got... desperate. Desperate?
Nameless' finger raises up to signal quiet, and after a pop of his elbow (does the elbow agree or disagree?), the aging man nods his head - or is that a potential death knell?
Taking in a breath of the clean(er) air at last, he follows along from behind, with at least the presence of mind to keep Ol' Rusty from scraping against the floors, the walls...
They make it across the mess hall.
The teenager reaches the second doorway. Again, he lines the gap with ice, spreading it open just a tad. He looks at Rust. Only moments ago, he was willing to kill him. Once they were on the ice, he may be willing to kill him again. But every moment now was dedicated to escaping the NESTS lab. Before it consumed them. Before it consumed both of them.
The wet thump comes again.
A thick worm of hair gropes within the mess hall, writhing and probing. Thick, moist hair, wet with -something- as it twists and turn. The biohorror of hair shudders, shivered violently as the mist seeps into the room underneath it. The door groans as it tries to force it open wider.
There is movement at the tables.
A scientist's employee's body twitches. Another one falls over, collapsing. The scratching noise returns, a scurrying sound along the floor. Not just one though, multiple scurries, spread around the room now. Moving. Nameless steps back into the door, eyes scanning the ground swiftly. The remaining bodies at the table remain upright, with only one notable difference.
Their hair is missing now.
The creaky, aging, now (re)confirmed possibly delusional escaping test subject creeps up from behind. He visibly shudders - maybe it's the temperature. He exhales, as if to grunt, or... mutter something, or another, eyes darting about the room, followed by a silent wince as the wet thump happens again.
Instinctually, he points (new) Ol' Rusty behind himself at the sound, the movement... as though a single little pipe could do anything against whatever the hell that is they're running from.
He moves to help pry the pipe into the crack that Nameless is helping to form, to try and jam it open, hardly giving the teenager any sort of doubting look. Trust? Blind, hopeful trust in someone who seemed keen on stopping him before the nerve gas the larger man appeared to survive largely unscathed, nor slowed had nearly taken them out of the picture for good?
That, or the mutual interest in getting the hell out of there... close enough.
He takes a moment to cover the top of his head as he sees the bald heads in the darkness, as though suddenly now gaining a real appreciation for what hair he actually has-- or just making sure it hasn't just magically flown off.
He shakes his head again, mouth opening slightly as if thinking to say something. What was it? Something he ought to mention... he has all the looks of a man who wants to speak up, but can't quite get there.
The room suddenly grows silent.
There is no scratching. The hair worm stops throbbing and groping. It is silent, save for the boy struggling with the door. Finally, Rust and him pry it open, just like the first one. The worm slowly rises, like a massive cobra about to strike. "Come on..." The teenager states, as he cracks it open just enough for him to try and slip through...
And the teenager is pulled in.
"Agh!" He moans, as three fur-covered arms grab him, dragging him into a mass of fur people. The teenager thrashes about, as the creatures shove their furry limbs into him, pulling him further and further into the next hallway. Rust is ignored, for now, by the infected humans.
But Rust isn't protected.
The man may suddenly find himself being attacked as well. But in a much more insidious manner. He feels his naked legs suddenly latched onto, by something tries to hold on and climb it. And then another. And then another. Should he look down, he would see a dozen hairpieces, some blond and long, others short and black, dragging themselves along the ground, attempting to slither up his legs.
For what, though, is anybody's guess.
"Pffffff--" The pipe-wielding man of the two holds back a swear, as if remembering at the last minute that the two need to be of utmost quiet, trying to thrust his new pipe through to attempt to catch Nameless by his outfit, somehow, to pull him back--
He gasps out loud as something fuzzy tickles the back of his heels. More than one fuzzy thing.
"Off, off," he demands as he tries to scrape them at bay with the pipe - whether he can catch up with so MANY is another issue as he struggles to fit himself through that very crack. It's akin to trying to get one's pants on while hurrying out the door, except the exact opposite. Of the first part.
A barely-held back chortle as the hairs tickle him is tinged with shock. It's an awkward picture for sure, a large, largely naked (outside of thermal tape) middle-aged man now struggling to get somewhere and scrape them all off.
Uncoordinated flailing is a much, much better summary as he has the presence of mind to try and peer back out to the stolen teenager.
"H-Hey, hey," he tries to call out, "you-- gkkkk!" Off, off, off, off!
The teenager begins to shout.
In the distance of the next room, the shouting is audible. But Rust had his own problems. Swiping the pipe at the hairpieces, they are easily knocked free from his legs. The piles of living hair are knocked away, hitting the walls with a wet smack, before crawling right back towards Rust. He can't get all of them. One was already on his back now, crawling up it.
The shouting is now muffled.
The massive worm gives another shudder, as it suddenly forces deep into the room. It hovers high about Rust now, the tip of the hair worm facing down at him. And slowly... the hairpieces begin to drop off Rust. Each of the flee, scurrying away from the middle-aged man. The hair abomination looms over Rust, as the children flee, as its head begins to peel back.
A skull drops down on the floor.
Layer after layer of matted hair curl back, revealing a long, tube-like 'throat' of the great hair creature. The worm begins to widen, expanding larger and larger as a great, tentacle-like tongue begins to extend out. Dancing around, inticing him to strike it, something begins to roll out along the tongue. It doesn't move of its own accord. It just... rolls to the tip. And there, the beast extends out the tentacle tongue towards Rust, offering him what is at the tip of it.
It is Rust's original hairpiece.
The man, once seemed almost implacable in the face of... just about every countermeasure believed available to NESTS to keeping a test subject in, shivers, right on the spot as he struggles to get that last one off his back--
The worm approaches, forcing its way in, another about-turn away from the hallway that should lead to freedom (and... freezedom). His left fist tenses up - that sure sign of his trademark hardening technique. His entire body locks up as the creature looks down upon him. That fuzzy, ticklish feeling drops off his back...
A skull?! "It, it ea--" He stammers out half a theory out loud, as he raises the length of pipe upwards in some kind of defense. He can't quite point it where it's waving. Something... something rolls off the end of the other something he begins to accept is probably best described, at its closest anatomical equivalent, to a tongue.
That's when he sees it. The shape, the color, even in this lighting... the wear, the tear, the...
His left hand reaches out, towards the tongue, as though a great relief were to suddenly wash over him. There it was, the... the other thing missing, aside from all the other actual life necessities that will be a pain to replace when the world is in panic, all because--
He looks back over his shoulder as if to say to the teenager, 'hey, okay, let me take this and--'
That's when he remembers. The teenager's not here, he was dragged off. The image of that man being overtaken by hair, before they had to beat their retreat... he looks back to the tip of that tongue, to the hallway, to the tongue...
His fingers on his right hand clench against the new pipe, which resists the strain of a clenched fist very well. (To be fair, it is also his right hand, the one with the weaker grip.)
He exhales loudly, looking back to the big, lumbering beast that offers--
"St-stay right there," he stammers weakly, as he draws back a foot...
With the strength instilled in his legs through Kyokugen tutelage, he gives the crack one, good, hard kick to widen it open further, "st-stay..."
And again.
"R-Right..."
His teeth clench, a cold sweat coming down his brow. He feels naked. What is he doing, looking away from...
"There!" He shouts out as he gives that one, final kick to force the door about as open as it can be as he starts to stagger down the hall.
"H-Hey! Hey! Hey. Wh-what's your name... hey...!!" He calls out, foregoing the rule to be very, very quiet, "Hold on, I'm---"
He looks back to the tou-- no he doesn't, he focuses down the hallway the clone was dragged, his joints all crackling in unison as he forces his body to flex, to move, as he sucks in air.
"I'm coming!! God... god damn it, you--" He doesn't look back towards the hairpiece, or the horror that just stared him in the face. Don't look back, don't look back, don't look back... not gonna leave that guy hanging, whoever they were--
As fast as his legs can carry him, he charges down that hallway after where the unlikely teenage ally was dragged, swinging the pipe at thin air as though to smack aside thinks that, in his panic, is pretty sure is about to pop out at him and fill that space.
The worm shudders violently, as Rust rejects its gift.
As Rust forces through the opening, he can see the hoard of hair men. They were piling on something, each of the furry limbs thrusting into the center. There was something still fighting underneath it. And as Rust slams the pipe around, the hair men are scattered, knocked aside. It isn't enough to break them up, until the air around them becomes intensely hot-
A burst of flame erupts from the midsts of the hair men, igniting them.
The hair creatures scatter, running blindly around. In the heart of the mob, the teenager lays, eyes dim. Burnt hair falls around him. Red rashes covered his body in splotches. Spitting out a hairball, he slowly stands up. "I'm. Alive." He states.
And there is a violent rumble that rips through the complex.
The door behind the shatters, exploding outward by the sudden rush of the hair abomination. The word had collapsed into a mass of angry tentacles now, a single hairpiece in the center of it, where its heart is. It was as if it was rejected. Bursts of hairy tendrils erupt forward, gripping the exposed piping on the walls, helping the abomination drag itself along. The teenager chokes, trying to run, scratching at his rashes
And he gasps.
"No..." He begins, as he looks at where the rashes were. Patches of white and black hair were beginning to grow on his arms and face. He blinks hard, rubbing his eye. Looking ahead, he could see a single strand of hair, poking out in the middle of his vision. "N-no." He continues, dragging himself along. Looking towards Rust, he stammers out to his companion in crime, as the hair beast rumbles towards them. "I'm... I'm infected."
"I'm not gonna make it."
"Gkkfhl," the aging man shakes out an arm as the flames lick a bit too close for his comfort, that and holding back clearly frightened exclamations that would have been worthy of the ranks of famous online video commentators as he comes to the sight of the young man whose name he's not sure he got at... any point, ever.
Not that he has a good track record with names to begin with.
"That's, that's... goo--" The complex rumbles, and he turns about-face to the encroaching horror. Pipes creak under its weight - pipes that, for whatever strange reason, were rejected in place of the completely random, impulsive choice to pick the one he holds in his hands.
"No? No... no what," Howard asks for clarification as he backs away, the pipe pointing at the creature thing as though it were much of a deterrent to begin with.
"Infec... shit. Shit. Shit!!" He shouts aloud, as he stands - so far as he knows - probably the only living human being here who seems to stand uninfected, not under its sway. He only vaguely peeks to the horror that is becoming the young man, at which point...
Okay. Okay. What'd everyone say so far. Gotta get out in the cold, can't survive it, right? Howard continues to back away, flexing out his shoulder to get out a kink. The way... the way everything moves like it's... connected to it? He doesn't recall seeing them on any... sort of threads, or anything...
"L-Look," he speaks up, clearing his throat, taking in a breath, "you said... you said one thing... 'bout... getting out to the, to the cold, right? How... how much further?" He sneers aloud, daring to put a hand on the youth's shoulder even as hair sprouts around them. "I... I think I got a--"
He's honest with himself, "it's, it's not a plan, it's," he looks back over his shoulder, "h-hold your breath, long as... long as you can. You gotta... you gotta run with me. Right out there, then, uh--"
He ducks away, on instinct, as though to try and avoid a swing he knows is probably coming from on high.
"I'll, ah, I'll work that out... when we get th-there, c'mon, I'm... I'm not leavi--"
"You are leaving without me."
The teenager says these words, tightening his quicksilver hand into a fist. "The master has a vision for you. That vision will not be complete if you are dead." Already, he could feel the tickle of hairs piercing his throat. The vile hair men forced their sickness into him. "Down the hall, there is the entrance bay. There are snow mobiles in there. Go... south. Just go south, as long as you can. That is the only chance to find people. Rust. Rust Howard." The teenager says, as the hair slowly begins to cover his exposed body. Gripping his quicksilver glove, he bows his head.
"We will meet again."
And Nameless pulls off the glove.
Where hair was, there is now fire as the boy begins to burn himself up. Turning around, he stares down the enraged biomonster, arm beginning to blacken from the intense fire consuming it. Where there was once hair, was now engulfed in flames. He did not look back to Rust.
He had a sacrifice to make.
"No, no, y-you're not--" Howard stammers for a while as he backs away. He thinks to reach out, to yank him - he's not the fastest man on two feet, damn his knee joints and working overtime for too long in his youth for the extra money. He woke back up confused as to the nature of what exactly he was doing there, what was going on, now...
He makes a calling sound as if to say a name, with the exceedingly awkward circumstance that he does not know their name. It is an 'aaaaaa' with no guidance, no hint. Just a nameless youth possessed of significant power, a power that sort of reminds him of....
He backs away slowly. Then, a little less slowly. It's hard to say 'quickly' in his case, but all he has about him are some thermal tape draped around his body, a shiny new length of pipe he still calls Ol' Rusty, and... what hair of his remains.
Dammit, should I have grabbed, if--
He looks away as the young man turns to flames. It's that, or he stays to tangle with... that... thing...
Dropping a few curse words that are lost in the ruckus, Howard takes off jogging to the entrance bay. Should he stop to say sorry for the trouble, that maybe he should reconsider? Remembering his own advice to keep his breath and just keep moving, he does that - he has to stop himself from looking back, no matter how tempted.
Any oncoming door that dares stay shut before him is met with powerful, decisive outward strokes of Ol' Rusty, showing an inexplicable familiarity with the new pipe as though it's the one he's wielded for years in complete ignorance of matters of differing length, weight, material, thickness. It's... sort of uncanny.
Maybe a little disturbing, if he is remaining insistent it is the same pipe going by just the name alone, but that doesn't change the strength or effect of his strikes, the decisiveness of his movements, the sheer force he can put into every attack. Every jab, every swing, every pry, each one counts as time runs shorter and shorter yet, where ideas such as matters of 'what if I freeze half to death while in that snow mobile, I'm basically naked' take a secondary concern.
He tries to call out a name that he does not have again, another awkward 'aaaaaaa' to echo through the halls with.
Nameless was burning up.
The hair was still growing, and the fire was igniting it hotter and hotter. He couldn't breath already. The hair had choked his lungs finally. But his body was burning. The hair beast was hurling into the midsts of the teenager. But hair was no match for fire. And there is a blue flame amongst the red as the hair-like fuel begins to fill the air...
Meanwhile, Rust was unstoppable. Every door in the path was knocked away. Every hairbeast was shattered. It does not take long before Rust finds himself upon the hangar of the secret base. Snow mobiles pepper the place; it seems that those who could escape, did. Even so, there were still some basic supply packets on each other, and the hangar door was wide open, letting in the artic air. A ramp was positioned right in front of it, even. There is not much time, however, as Rust will soon find out... As hair meets the Kusanagi flame, there is a violent, fiery explosion that rips through the interior of the lab.
THere was now a red fireball, ripping right behind him.
Every stroke counts, in the maddest (or saddest) dash (or jog) he can make in the run for freedom (or... no, just that). With the final flick of the pipe, the last remnants of oily, goopy hair just slides off... and out into the hangar he goes, a serious chill already threatening to freeze him to the core. Even with all the training against the harsh cold waterfalls those times he could go on mountain trips with Ryo (far fewer in between than he'd have liked)...
It's cold. He shivers as he looks beh--
Fire. The fire grows larger, moving in closer, and that is when he remembers that he is not safe to shiver there and die of cold, running for one of the snow mobiles-- please tell me someone left the keys in, he stammers mentally (and physically)--
Open air. Cold. Cold. Cold. His teeth chatter as he accidentally knocks over a pack-- clothes?!
Fire. It grows hotter, brighter, and closer - death of fire, death of cold, death of... hair... he remembers, suddenly, how completely naked his scalp feels.
Scalding flame licks at him.
He tries to put on what clothes he can in a hurry, for being woefully inadequate for themselves. Pants that feel too tight. Boots that numb his toes. A jacket he can't quite zip all the way up.
The helmet fits, though. It's not much of a blessing, as he staggers for the proper snow mobile-- those look like keys. Good. Keys. Turn on, turn on, turn on--
The heat intensifies. He finally gets it to work, holding onto the mobile's handles with his left hand as he clutches the new Ol' Rusty in his right as tightly as he can. He doesn't look over his shoulder, he doesn't look back, he guns it. At least, he's sure this one guns i--
Whiplash strikes as it takes off, a pain surging through his left elbow as he has to pull himself in to stay on as it goes up the ramp, out towards the great cold.
He's only going to hope he's going south as it is... not that he has much of a choice, in the wake of the inferno raging behind him.
*********************
The Canadians tread amongst the ice flats, clubs in hand. A foursome of seal clubbers, professional seal hunters that roamed the ice and snow, clubbing baby seals. And have lived in a nearby igloo, they were picking amongst a pack of baby seals, near some mountains that jutted up amongst the ice and snow. But as a red-bearded Canadian wipes a club off in the snow, another suddenly pipes up in the Canadian tongue, gesturing heavily to a fellow Canadian.
"<Jouhn, would you go and check this out, eh?>"
The red beareded Canadian runs towards the blond-bearded one, "<This better be good Geourge, eh!>" He responds, his seal club in his hand. Traversing across the ice and snow, he looks down into the ravine, where the huskies often go. And there, amongst the dogs, was a half-naked middle aged man on a snow mobile.
Clutching a pipe.
"<Well blow me down and call me a moouse, eh!>" John exclaims, clutching his fur hat. George drops down into the ravine carefully, clutching a thermos full of maple syrup. "<We better go and get a doctor, eh! He won't have to pay for it, though, we have universal health care!"> John nods. "<We better tell Paul about this, eh!>"
But Pal was distracted.
The brown-bearded Canadian too had found something strange. <"Hey, Ringou, check this out, eh!>" The other seal clubber stated, poking at a recently clubbed seal. Ringo, the black-bearded one having been busy clubbing a seal, staggers across the ice and snow to see what Pal was poking. "Why, Paul, that is the strangest thing I've seen, eh!>" He says, pointing at the top of the seal's head.
"<Who has ever seen a seal with a toupee, eh?>"
Log created on 18:19:55 08/21/2014 by Rust, and last modified on 17:18:04 08/26/2014.