SON OF RYAN.
—awoken; introduction ☠

thefirstwife:

… a paradise rotted in twilight.

Ah, was this not the same setting of the beloved castle she had previously taken shelter in? Shackles taut upon slender wrists, shoulders stiff as limbs hung loosely in front of the crimson dress soaked in dried blood and thick wafts of iron. One might mistake the maid for having slain a hefty beast within the foggy banks she lurked within. Legs only carried the weight of her body whilst rigor mortis dusted away from each bend of her digits, the curve of her knee.

Such a lonesome entity.

A new start or punishment; in the end, this arrival was one in the same.

Verdigris swathed hues welled tears upon the realization that the forbidden room she hung in was long left behind. Paradise was long lost to her outstretched reach, certainly within the confinements of purgatory to await the sentence that weighed heavy along her shattered psyche — did she not deserve this, however?

Heels clicked, the sound ricocheting into the silence of the dense vapour that embraced her mattered body. Dust attracted to the cloth which trailed behind in morbid elegance, chains jingling as glance shifted from which way. The Yellow Zone did not seem to prove as hazardous, this woman’s luck fairing well for one whom does not retain abilities or weapons but the body she was given upon her revival.

Humanoid shadows roamed out of the already hindered sight.

Precarious visage cringed gently as thoughts mulled idly through her burdened mind. Quietus had already planted it’s kiss unto her once before her miraculous resuscitation. Apprehension lingered momentarily as mouth opened in hesitation to call to whatever it may be lurking out of sight; would it be assistance or a gruesome ending to yet another tale would be the final symphony to be played in this act of tragedy.

… I beg your pardon… hello?

Growls of foreign creatures bellowed within the distance, vocables raspy after how long she remained mute hanging deceased in that room which homed a see of blood. The moment of truth had finally come as knees collided to the floor, brown tufts curving around her countenance was she looked on.

— human or fiend; a wonder which would greet her in this desolate scenery.

Fortunately for the woman, it was not one of the twisted things that greeted her. Out of a ruined supermarket came a tall man, lugging a backpack and clutching a bulky revolver. As he walked down the street, Jack flipped the revolver open, spilling the spent shells onto the pavement. In the muffled conditions of Fiddler’s Green, the tinkling sound was given an eerie, almost otherworldly quality. He reflected upon his current surroundings. Jack’s knowledge of this strange little town could be summed up in one statement—that it was really, really weird. 

Wiping away the blood trickling from his nose—Fiddler’s Green scoffed at the notion of a free lunch, and he’d been taken by surprise—the splicer began to meander his way back to one of the Blue Zones, and back towards civilization. While Jack didn’t like people, it was either suffering social contact, or trying to sleep in some damp, moldy, bloodstained basement, which he was not all too fond of, especially after Rapture.

He paused, when he heard a voice. Moving towards it, Jack saw the speaker. A woman, in a bloody and rather old-fashioned dress, shackled by her wrists, and on her knees. An odd sight, but what wasn’t odd here? Jack tilted his head to the side, lowering his revolver, letting it rest at his side. She didn’t look hostile, and if she was, Jack didn’t put much faith in her ability to attack him, especially when he saw those chains around her wrists.

"Hello. Are you…" The man paused, as if the words he needed had escaped him, which wasn’t too far from the truth. "Okay?" Hazel eyes filled with concern, he cautiously approached the woman, holstering his weapon as he did so. He knew that the streets weren’t safe—the growls and mutterings in the distance spoke volumes to the man—so he knew that a suitably hasty retreat would be necessary, if either of them wished to retain a pulse.

Could be worse. Open.

ohgoodyamurder:

He’d been on the move for a couple of months now, sky shifting from town to town, always hovering somewhere in the area around London. He could tell immediately that this was different. The sun had always been somewhere shining brightly through the clouds, however thick, before, but here it was like the fog surrounding the city was completely opaque. Like a tarp. Cutting off this funny little town from the entire rest of the world. It probably wasn’t a good sign.

Nor was the lack of pedestrians in the gray streets, or the shadows pooling in every corner, or the weeds and rust coating the windowsills and pavement and abandoned cars. How had he even gotten here? He had never lost track of his wandering before, but now he found a bit of a gap in his prodigious memory. He’d likely been drugged, maybe by the fog, again. He wished people would be a bit more creative with their ruses.

But it was cold, and foggy, and gritty; generally unpleasant, and getting more so, as the sun began to fade even further. No matter how he’d gotten here, he was here now, and finding shelter was probably in his best interest.

Sherlock turned up his collar and strode confidently through perhaps the most literal hellhole he’d ever visited.

Moments later, Sherlock would find himself encountering a fellow newcomer. From the ruined storefront of some long-defunct cafe, gunfire could be heard—the deep-throated roar of a shotgun, the clattering of used shells hitting the pavement, and the occasional bark of a pistol—a regular orchestra of gunpowder and brass. Accompanying it were… shrieks, guttural ululations that sounded rather high-pitched. After several moments, the sounds stopped.

And through the glass came a Creeper, bodily hurled by whoever was inside. It hit the hood of some derelict convertible, rolling over it and onto the wet pavement, where it twitched and howled piteously. Blood oozed from a wound in its gut and from half a dozen lacerations covering its scrawny frame. As it died, the victor strode out of the cafe, glass crunching underfoot.

A tall, imposing man wearing a rather dirty sweater and an even dirtier pair of jeans tromped out of the ruined storefront, holding a gun in one hand. Blood—although most of it wasn’t his—trickled freely from his open hand. Ignoring Sherlock, the man walked over to his prey, and stomped on the writhing… thing, snapping its neck under the solid heel of his boot. There was a satisfying crunch, like a dry twig snapping underfoot, and the thing twitched spasmodically, before shuddering once. As it died, Jack lowered the barrel of his shotgun towards its face—and blew it off. Blood spattered onto the assassin’s face, but he paid it no mind.

After a moment, he turned to look at the detective, issuing a silent challenge with his eyes. Come and get me, his eyes seemed to say. Come on, just you try. While the man hadn’t done anything to earn his ire—yet—Jack was still Jack. Old habits died hard, and this place only reinforced his habits…

ROBOTS OR DINOSAURS?

"…"

"Robots."