Open Post 001

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musebox • rules • character list

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[viced]

Nobody knocked. Nobody knew where he was. He'd been certain, careful in his work. He'd had to be. If anyone found him, they'd either been stalking him by satellite, or they had alternate means. Someone, an old ally, should have been able to pass within a mile, and never know how close they'd been. He was paranoid. Too paranoid. It was probably just a hiker. Someone who'd gotten lost out in the woods. Was there a storm coming? Maybe some idiot kid had gotten separated from their group.

He moved silently, trying not to alert the other person that someone was home. Maybe if they thought he was out, they would go away. Or they might break in. The place was obviously wired for power, although the lines were underground. There were telltale signs. He peeked through a peephole after tip-toeing up to the door, careful and quiet.

And motherfucker.

Oh no. No, no. He stepped back, his foot falling heavily. It didn't matter that he was older, oh fuck no. He knew as soon as he knew he would be recognized even without his tell-tale scars. Even with the contacts. Even with the dyed and shorter hair. It was blonde now. He looked his age, in that respect, but his face was too smooth, too few lines to be the fifty year old man they'd be looking for. Even if he felt his age. He stepped beck from the door, fumbling, hands searching. He needed a gun. Where had he put that gun? He tried to listen for it, but it had been ten years since he'd seen hide or hair of Pherson, and the shock of his archnemesis was enough to make him sick.

He didn't say anything. He didn't acknowledge that he was out there. He kept looking through drawers, listening, before his hands closed around the black metal. He hadn't kept one of his own guns around in years. Too easy to figure out who he was. It was just a Beretta, but they shot bullets well enough.

[parroted]

Pherson had barely changed. His hair had grown wilder, his stubble had become something resembling a beard. He was thinner, older, greyer. But still at least a decade younger, and so much time spent out in the bush kept him active and healthy.

Pherson knew Mitchell was home. A spider spinning its web nearby told him that no one had left the cabin in a while, and an ant crawling under the door let him know that something big was home.

Hundred was here, Pherson knew he was here.

LET ME IN BEFORE MY FRIEND BREAKS THE DOOR DOWN.

The use of his Voice was immediate, automatic. He had almost forgotten how not to speak with it, having spent so much time among no others but his children.

He looked behind him to the horse he had ridden on, gesturing it to come closer. He didn't even need to tell it such simple commands now, it had learned.

[viced]

Mitchell stood, gun leveled at the door. He was backed against the wall, back against the wood, staring. Frightened out of his mind, he could feel his heart thudding harder than it had in a long time. Not since the assassination, and he'd been scared, paranoid for a while, but not like this. This was a direct threat.

He stepped forward, sliding the chain loose, the sound obvious, but if Pherson tried the door then, it still wouldn't open. He stopped, breathing hard, he stepped back to the wall, and leveled the gun at the door. A normal gun. It might not kill Pherson, but it could injure him. Pherson would get in one way or the other, but he didn't need the stress of losing his door.

LOCKS, DISENGAGE.

And he stood, gun leveled at the door. He knew Pherson would hear his voice, it was distinct, unlike anything else. He held his gun level, right at the door. Waiting.

[parroted]

Pherson heard him, knew that telltale voice. It was only then that he was absolutely certain he had found his old nemesis.

He leaned forward and opened the door, slowly - stopping halfway leaned in when he saw the gun. He frowned for a moment, before it smoothed back into a smile.

"HELLO MY BRother."

Humans didn't get the Voice, he just remembered. And for all that he was his brother, for all that he was special, Mitchell Hundred was still human.

[viced]

"Pherson."

The greeting was cold, he stared straight at him, taking in the details. Everything. He looked good, probably better than Mitchell would, if he hadn't altered his skin. He still looked young, but he didn't feel it. Of course he didn't, he was past fifty.

"I was hoping you were dead," he paused, his grim lips twitching. "Again. I was hoping you were fucking dead."

[parroted]

"So antagonistic right off the bat, Hundred."

He lifted his hands now, a gesture of surrender. There was a bite to his voice - this wasn't what he wanted or expected. Just because time had healed some of Pherson's wounds didn't mean they did the same for Mitch.

"If you want me dead, shoot me. I'll ask my children to leave you be."

[viced]

Mitchell tended to linger, he held onto things, because they'd helped make him the man he was. Pherson had shaped him just the same as anyone else, probably more than most. Pherson had been his archenemy after all. His other half, really. Suzanne had changed the board entirely, Pherson had played along.

"What, you expected a tearful reunion?" He held the gun for another moment, before slowly, very slowly, he lowered it.

He flipped the safety, and slid it into the waistband of his pants. And then he crossed his arms, nodding at the still open door. "Animals outside, close the door, and then tell me what the shit you want before I decide maybe the offer does look pretty good right now."

[parroted]

"I didn't expect you to be blonde."

He just as slowly entered, hands still up, and closed the door behind him. The good thing about the location is that he knew there were animals nearby. Not in case of emergencies, but the idea of not having those voices in his head was almost frightening. But that idea was absurd - there were always members of his extended family around, no matter where he went. But if it made Hundred less likely to pull the trigger, he could pretend to be alone.

He looked around the cabin.

"How much have you lost, my brother?"

[viced]

He stood rail straight, watching every motion. Pherson, predictably, kind of stank. Like a human who had forgotten what it was to be a human, and why should he be surprised? The guy was practically an animal, likely. Trying to speak to him with his voice, that was a strong indication that he'd forgotten things.

He uncrossed his arms, and then crossed them again. What did he even say? What did he do in this situation?

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'd say you're the one who's lost a bit too much. You look like a hobo," a beat, "and you smell like one too."

[parroted]

He frowns, his mouth twisting. That sort of comment didn't piss him off, it was more of uh "oh please" reaction.

"I am among my children. I don't need the trappings of an urban life, not like you do."

Hundred belonged among the machines, just as Pherson felt he belonged among wildlife. He stared at Mitchell, trying to get used to the new appearance, the new him.

[viced]

The new him was at least more similar to who he'd been than the face he'd worn in recent years. He didn't move, though. He watched. Waited for what he knew was coming.

He still had dreams. He still dreamed about their creators, he didn't know if Pherson ever dreamed. He never really cared enough to ask. He didn't care enough about them at all. Or their mission.

"Obviously, I've broken the mold in more ways than one. What do you want?"

[parroted]

"I wanted to see you."

He paused. Why was he here?

"See what had become of you. I knew you had to be still alive. And here you are. A survivor."

He knew Mitchell was a survivor. All those months of fighting the Great Machine, all those years he had lived without Pherson - even as Pherson wanted to have killed him, he knew Mitchell wouldn't give up, wouldn't give in. He'd always be there.

[viced]

Christ. Mitchell knew the way their powers worked, at least some of it. The way that it was like a storm, drawing everyone in, leaving madness behind in its wake. How many had come out unscathed? He didn't think even he had, not really. He pretended, played that his powers were just that, just powers, but at the end of the day, he knew otherwise. The damage to his brain was so severe, so complete, and it was more apparent now, surrounded by machines everywhere, all their voices, constant.

"Uh huh. So, you're not here to pull your usual bullshit? Somehow, I'm really doubting that," cold, still hard. No matter how bad it got, he kept his mind on one truth, that Pherson was insane, that he didn't know, didn't understand how bad it was, how bad their creators actually were.

But sometimes he wondered why Pherson, and Suzanne, had both seen it as a paradise, and why he'd seen the truth.