[For all our talk about evil as an abstract, as an idea, it's strange how tangible it seems sometimes, how - around certain places, certain people - it feels like something that you can reach out and touch. As the five of them patrol up to the front door, the house feels...alive. As though, behind its chipped and faded paint and stained windows, it is a monster with teeth that has devoured so many lives and is hungry for so many more.
Mother's voice is barely a whisper over the net.]
Rhodes, kill the power.
On it.
[That light in the second story goes out as they stack up on the door. Rabbit tries the lock - it's open. The hinges creak as they flow in like water, the suppressors on their weapons like horns as the SEALs cover their angles.]
Neptune, moving interior.
[The feeds on the SEALs' helmet cams and Lindianne's contacts are feeding a steady stream of audio and video back to a couple of flatscreens in the Situation Room. Faye and Benitez - and more than a handful of the intel squints - are watching in various positions of tension. They can see the splintered wood and shattered bits of glass underneath Neptune's feet, the old bloodstains on the walls. The mics are even good enough that they can capture the soft sounds of movement from upstairs - someone whispering, the faint creak of bedsprings. But they can't get a whiff of the odor, that faint smell of decay, of unwashed bodies, of stale excrement.
Rabbit's the one to take the door with Lindianne as the other SEALs flow past. As Preacher and Mother stack up on another door, Voodoo takes up position by the stairwell leading up, his infrared laser pointed up the steps like a lance.
Rabbit's on her heels as Lindianne lunges, grabs hold of the figure-
long brown hair, a healing cut on one pale and sallow cheek, filthy white tank-top and panties, eyes wide and mouth open as she issues a startled scream-
It seems to echo throughout the house for the split-second before a hand is clamped over her mouth. Her frail, malnourished frame can hardly withstand the force of Lidnianne's lunge - it's enough to knock her back and on her behind into a corner, where she pants against the hand pressed against her mouth.]
no subject
Mother's voice is barely a whisper over the net.]
Rhodes, kill the power.
On it.
[That light in the second story goes out as they stack up on the door. Rabbit tries the lock - it's open. The hinges creak as they flow in like water, the suppressors on their weapons like horns as the SEALs cover their angles.]
Neptune, moving interior.
[The feeds on the SEALs' helmet cams and Lindianne's contacts are feeding a steady stream of audio and video back to a couple of flatscreens in the Situation Room. Faye and Benitez - and more than a handful of the intel squints - are watching in various positions of tension. They can see the splintered wood and shattered bits of glass underneath Neptune's feet, the old bloodstains on the walls. The mics are even good enough that they can capture the soft sounds of movement from upstairs - someone whispering, the faint creak of bedsprings. But they can't get a whiff of the odor, that faint smell of decay, of unwashed bodies, of stale excrement.
Rabbit's the one to take the door with Lindianne as the other SEALs flow past. As Preacher and Mother stack up on another door, Voodoo takes up position by the stairwell leading up, his infrared laser pointed up the steps like a lance.
Rabbit's on her heels as Lindianne lunges, grabs hold of the figure-
long brown hair, a healing cut on one pale and sallow cheek, filthy white tank-top and panties, eyes wide and mouth open as she issues a startled scream-
It seems to echo throughout the house for the split-second before a hand is clamped over her mouth. Her frail, malnourished frame can hardly withstand the force of Lidnianne's lunge - it's enough to knock her back and on her behind into a corner, where she pants against the hand pressed against her mouth.]
Don'tkillmedon'tkillmedon'tkillme, pleasedon'tkillme pleasepleasepleaaaase-
[Her eyes are squeezed shut. Tears flow readily from their corners, as though she's resigned herself to whatever pleas she makes going unheard.]