Petros' Arrest (@lyndis)
Jan 6, 2016 21:33:41 GMT -5
Post by meerclar on Jan 6, 2016 21:33:41 GMT -5
Petros lay on his back, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling.
How did I get here? His thoughts were scattered and muddled and he was filled with a deep sense of unease as he struggled to remember.
His ears were ringing and his body ached, but everything was distant and unimportant
A memory surfaced in the muddled mess. Blood on the floor, on the sheets, splashed across the wall in a vicious arc. The bodies of his parents, beaten and bloody. His brothers and sister, still in their beds, blood slowly soaking into the sheets.
Petros smelled smoke that didn't fit with his memory, jolting him back to the present. Small flames were licking at the ceiling on the edge of his vision. I have to get out of here.
He tried to roll over and his stomach roiled in protest at the movement. Waves of nausea rolled over him and the ambient ache in his body settled decisively into a burning pain in his left shoulder. He turned his head slowly and tried to make sense of what he was looking at. There was something protruding from his shoulder. Metal. Sharp and ragged around the edges, like it had been ripped from something bigger. Leave it.
Across the room, a charred figure was slumped on the floor next to a burning table. What remained of his clothes looked like a Peacekeeper uniform and Petros' memories came back in a rush.
Peacekeeper Wilks. The man who had ordered the murder of his family. Who had falsified the report that they were traitors to Panem. The man he had come here to kill.
From across the room he certainly looked dead, but Petros was taking no chances. The blast he had detonated had knocked him out as well and there was no telling how long
he had before the rest of the Peacekeepers arrived. If Wilks wasn't dead yet, there might be time to finish the job.
With a grim effort, Petros dragged himself to his knees, and then to his feet, staggering dizzily across the room. His balance was off and he kept stumbling and walking into things. He almost fell down next to Wilks when he tried to crouch beside him and landed on the man. He didn't bother to get back up, just pushed at the peacekeeper until he managed to roll the prone figure over.
Half Wilks' face was gone, his chest was a ruined, bloody mess of flesh and bone. Definitely dead.
The energy that had driven him this far and propelled him across the room despite his own injury left him in a rush and he slumped down next to the corpse.
Petros had given himself less than 20% chance of surviving the blast and was more than a little surprised to find that he'd been wrong. If he'd had an contingency plans for what to do next, they were eluding him now. His mind was too addled, his body too battered. Anyway, it wouldn't take the Peacekeepers long to work out who had done this. There didn't seem any point in trying to escape.
How did I get here? His thoughts were scattered and muddled and he was filled with a deep sense of unease as he struggled to remember.
His ears were ringing and his body ached, but everything was distant and unimportant
A memory surfaced in the muddled mess. Blood on the floor, on the sheets, splashed across the wall in a vicious arc. The bodies of his parents, beaten and bloody. His brothers and sister, still in their beds, blood slowly soaking into the sheets.
Petros smelled smoke that didn't fit with his memory, jolting him back to the present. Small flames were licking at the ceiling on the edge of his vision. I have to get out of here.
He tried to roll over and his stomach roiled in protest at the movement. Waves of nausea rolled over him and the ambient ache in his body settled decisively into a burning pain in his left shoulder. He turned his head slowly and tried to make sense of what he was looking at. There was something protruding from his shoulder. Metal. Sharp and ragged around the edges, like it had been ripped from something bigger. Leave it.
Across the room, a charred figure was slumped on the floor next to a burning table. What remained of his clothes looked like a Peacekeeper uniform and Petros' memories came back in a rush.
Peacekeeper Wilks. The man who had ordered the murder of his family. Who had falsified the report that they were traitors to Panem. The man he had come here to kill.
From across the room he certainly looked dead, but Petros was taking no chances. The blast he had detonated had knocked him out as well and there was no telling how long
he had before the rest of the Peacekeepers arrived. If Wilks wasn't dead yet, there might be time to finish the job.
With a grim effort, Petros dragged himself to his knees, and then to his feet, staggering dizzily across the room. His balance was off and he kept stumbling and walking into things. He almost fell down next to Wilks when he tried to crouch beside him and landed on the man. He didn't bother to get back up, just pushed at the peacekeeper until he managed to roll the prone figure over.
Half Wilks' face was gone, his chest was a ruined, bloody mess of flesh and bone. Definitely dead.
The energy that had driven him this far and propelled him across the room despite his own injury left him in a rush and he slumped down next to the corpse.
Petros had given himself less than 20% chance of surviving the blast and was more than a little surprised to find that he'd been wrong. If he'd had an contingency plans for what to do next, they were eluding him now. His mind was too addled, his body too battered. Anyway, it wouldn't take the Peacekeepers long to work out who had done this. There didn't seem any point in trying to escape.
