a heart of darkness ✘ gunner, day 1.

He does not bulge.

No sudden movements, no reckless movements. As still as the breath in his lungs, Gunner waits with Grudge cradled to his chest, barrel pointed out towards the darkness. He waits. A second passes, then a few more. Something ahead screeches low. He recognizes the sound, or rather the hunger in it. It is calling for a meal.

He should turn back.

Go back to Lucky, go back to Xylia, but already he had been mocked for running in his bloodbath when actually he was hunting down Rhys. No matter the reason, he can’t go back. Not without a good scout of the area, some mental topography to boast at the two with. Gunner knows his pride is the stuff they warn you through stupid fables and folklores, but fuck it.

He walks slowly ahead. One step at a time, gun still out, his eyes scanning the surroundings in a clean and steady sweep like a radar. It feels a forever walk through shadows. Is this what the ghost realm is like? He wonders briefly if he’ll see any 餓鬼 here, the hungry ghosts that widowers would spin tales of, but the thought dies as he comes across something in the inky unlight.

A chunk of machinery. He looks left, looks right, before he approaches it cautiously, expecting it to explode as he does. But it doesn’t. The machine looks like a strange, alien monolith, forsaken amongst the shadows. He spots something nearby too, a toolbox by the looks of it.

Gunner groans.

Slings his gun up onto his shoulder, squats down low. At least, he comforts himself, he can smear grease on Lucky’s annoyingly handsome face whether he succeeds or not.

The hollow thud of his boot against the generator bursts out a thunderous echo to accompany the chartreuse lightning flashes above.

He forces down a curse. Bites his tongue, literally, as the sound of flapping rubber and growls draw closer and closer. As the darkness draws closer and closer. Sniper eyes, keen and observant, can now make out shapes amongst the shadows but not on the ground - in the sky.

What the actual fuckity fuck are those?

He does not intend to stick around and find out.

He draws Grudge back onto his hands with a flourish, the move quick and natural, and the rest of his body follows behind to enter a gunslinging stance: shoulders braced, arms taut, eyes alert. He could feel the weight of Grudge, nearly feel the shell within her chamber, too. Both of them stands ready.

And then he hears something else. A cry. No, worse. A crow’s caw. Kacaw! it cries.

Kacaw, kacaw, kacaw!

Movement zips underfoot. He jumps, startled, but keeps his hold on Grudge steady. Something’s running, dashing. He chases the dash of the shape with the barrel of the gun. It’s there. No, there. He grits his teeth, clutches Grudge. He cannot waste one of three shells on a miss.

So instead, as whatever forsaken creature runs past him with a maddening crackle, Gunner puts a foot in its path. The little blob of black trips.

He cocks an eyebrow. Inky plumes and a hint of ivory accent. What the hell is this thing? Surely not the beasts in the sky. He squats down low to use the muzzle of the gun to poke it. The creature leaps immediately at that, hopping onto the barrel, and Gunner manages to seal his lips a mere second before a scream erupts from it.

He stares dead into the dark, sunken eyes of a bright, bonelike mask. Gunner tilts his head curiously, a movement that the creature mirrors. He isn’t sure if it’s harmless or about to eat his face. His one hand has begun reaching for the ice pick on his belt slowly and slowly, while the creature moves forth using its gnarled claws slightly and slightly.

The musk of the creature is not rancid but borders it. Fruits left to dry in the sun, damp bird feathers, that sort of thing.

Then it laughs.

Fucking hell, it laughs, letting loose a peal of devilish laughter that shoots another shiver down his spine, though it is unclear whether the giggle was the cause or the encroaching sound of wings.