they were just kids }} reibert }} rook
Apr 25, 2014 21:01:27 GMT -5
Post by semper on Apr 25, 2014 21:01:27 GMT -5
pack your things, leave somehow
we're as free as starving wolves
F. U. B. A. R.
fucked up beyond all repair
age: 10
infiltration confirmed
rank: cadet
location: capitol [training]
The threadbare backpack was much too big for him and the weight of the containers inside made his shoulders sag even more than the burden that had been placed upon them. It was an order directly from the top of command in the Titan Project, and failure to abide would mean certain death. The threat was so frightening that it made Bertholdt bite back the meager contents at risk of coming up from his churning stomach. Fear captured and held his lanky limbs like puppet strings; involuntarily he moved through the motions, powered by a childish and somewhat naïve desire to save his own skin.
Did he really believe that the commanders would keep him alive even if he followed through with the plan?
Stupid and foolish belief – Bertholdt knew better than to trust the adults making the decisions, but he was far too shy and insecure to fight back. Hell, even Reiner never retaliated, and that squat young boy was certainly the strongest kid the lanky one ever knew. Even so, Bertholdt’s mother, too, would never let him live it down if he were to back out now, right as one of the Capitol’s schools came into view.
Anxiety coursed like congealed blood in his veins and his heart hammered against heaving ribs. Wide green eyes possessed a prey-like shine as he snuck around to the back of the brick building, hiding behind bushes and whatever stationary objects were large enough to conceal his large frame from view. Slowly yet steadily, Bertholdt made his way to the air conditioning units.
There were people inside the building, mostly kids his own age. A lump formed in his throat as he realized the severity of the situation. Every single person in there was innocent, not to mention completely oblivious to the Titan Project, and Bertholdt was about to steal their sense of security. Would it be worth it? If he followed the plan then he would live but only to do heinous acts again, but if he didn’t, he would be killed. Already he could hear the authoritative voice of the instructor: ”They ruin the lives of every district citizen so it’s only fair that we return the favor!”
Once again Bertholdt was stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Trembling bleach-spotted hands worked feverishly, fumbling to pull the backpack off his shoulders. Fear peaked and his young heart slammed wildly in his chest; the air he breathed was suddenly much too thin and he found himself one step shy of hyperventilating while tucking himself next to the noisy machines and unzipping the backpack. Thoughts raced through his mind, already begging, pleading for forgiveness from the unsuspecting victims already trapped inside.
(I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.)
Pulling the pouch open, Bertholdt stared at the bottles inside. Most of them, he had been told, could kill a person with the amount they had inside the containers. It had taken every ounce of courage that he could conjure in order to even become okay with carrying all the death on his back, and handling the chemicals was still an ongoing war with himself. He wanted to use gloves each time a bottle needed to be used but the instructors insisted that he’d never have time to put them on out in the field. It was true, to a certain extent, and he found himself very reluctantly going along with it.
The young boy reached into another compartment of the book bag and pulled out his gas mask: an old, gnarly thing that honestly terrified him still, and again he had forced himself to become well acquainted with it. Bertholdt held the mask in his hands, thumb running across the rubber.
“Reiner,” his small voice shook with fear, “don’t get too close. I don’t want you to breathe it in.”
A few more moments of hesitation passed before the boy forced himself into donning the mask. He glanced at Reiner to make sure he was a decent distance away before he pulled out the specified chemical with his bare hands, setting it gingerly on the ground.
The gas prescribed to do the job had a name that looked more like jibberish and he certainly could not pronounce it even if he tried. The effects were much clearer: it would knock people out, and if breathed in for too long, could perhaps kill someone. Bertholdt’s entire body quaked and shook as he picked and pried apart bits of the air conditioning unit closest to the building itself, then set the canister in, unscrewing the top. He quickly slammed the pieces back on the vent just as the terrifyingly familiar hissing sound began; screws were haphazardly hammered back into place with a balled fist and Bertholdt snagged his backpack and retreated immediately to his friend, stumbling a few times.
He yanked the mask off, cheeks flushed, black hair unkempt. The mask was set down momentarily as he pulled the backpack on again and clipped the chest and waist buckles, taking the weight off his shoulders as best he could.
“Just give it about thirty minutes,” he murmured. “I don’t really know if the vapors will be gone completely… should I just go in after? Or do you want to go? Actually, I don’t really want to go in alone…”