thearena | (no subject)

Entry tags:

wesker,
✘ maximus

(no subject)

WHO | Maximus, Morrigan and Wesker
WHAT | 3-way death spree
WHEN | mid week 4
WHERE | In a Crevasse
WARNINGS / NOTES | Death x3, Violence, general horrible gore

When the knife had come, Maximus had smiled grimly and nodded to the sky. The delivery mechanism was bizarre, of course, but he ignored it and left such thoughts for later. For now, survival came first.

And survive they had.

Morrigan had been a surprisingly adept ally - though he still did not, and indeed could not, understand her powers. He had heard of magic, of course, though it was generally in the use of a god. He had discounted such stories as superstition and nonsense, but it appeared he was living in a world of monsters, so why not gods? He didn't ask who her parents were. Such knowledge was best left untouched. A grudge with Jupiter or any of his brethren would only do him ill. So he did not ask.

During the days, they hunted. And in the nights, they climbed down into the crevasses in the ice, and Morrigan would pull fire from there air and they would camp.

He always took the the first watch. But the night was late, now, and he had already woken Morrigan to take hers, before curling up next to the unnatural fire and allowing his watchful eyes to close.

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Before long, sight overtook sound and Wesker could bring color, depth, to the picture his ears and nose painted.

A pair, male and female, and a fire, casting dancing light against the slick walls, reflecting, and washing the cavern in red-gold.

He studied them from the darkest shadows, listening carefully to the quiet-beating of their hearts. Slow and unhurried. Restful. Relaxed.

Completely unaware.

His head tipped, eyes traveling over the icy floor. Plotting it out. Where and how he would move.

She felt so warm, so perfect, the smell of her hair -- wait, what had her hair smelled like, again? The unbidden thought broke into his dream and suddenly everything was wrong - he pulled back, just in time to watch the ice crystals crawl across her eyes. He staggered, fell back--

And awoke with a sharp intake of breath.

His heart thumped, but everything was silent - nothing but walls of ice and the gentle flicker of a fire. He turned his head to catch sight of Morrigan, peering up at the sky.

"The stars are different," He said after a long moment. "Not... Not incredibly different, but they rise at the wrong times. The north star I knew now moves..."

"They are only illusions."

She words were enunciated with sharp care, disapproval laced through her tone. She knew the stars as she knew her own heart beat. Romantic her mother may call her, but the alignment of the celestial bodies and the weight of the moon carried power. The mockery of them here served as a constant reminder or the innate wrongness of her current life.

She stood from her chair of ice, gaze sweeping across the shadows once more as a distraction.

"False comforts of false gods."

The male had woken, but no matter. They were still at ease, still unaware.

Wesker exhaled, and simply moved. In the way that only he could.

A shadow broken away from the dark, come to life, streaking across the floor. The man, appearing in an instant, suddenly firm and real, as he brought up an elbow and struck at Morrigan, a hard firm, forearm connecting with her jaw, knocking her aside.

Knocking her out of the way so he could pivot and turn to Maximus, board and tall, a ghost of smirk playing around his firm mouth.

The change from relaxed to ready was almost instant - the words on his lips immediately disappearing as he rolled fast from the fire, swinging himself up on one knee, the knife already in his hand and held up defensively at his throat. He didn't have time to check if Morrigan was unhurt. They were under attack.

From one knee he sprung up to the left, trying to make his way back to her, knife at the ready, just waiting for Wesker to make a move.

Blood fills her mouth from the blow, adding the necessity for her to spit before she can pull herself up on one knee, staff clenched in the hand hot wiping at her mouth. There is no time for anything elaborate- nor particularly destructive, she was loath to admit. With the Spaniard in range nothing of real damage she could throw at the assailant would fail to strike her ally as well.

The pains of not simply working alone.

She cast an ice spell instead, aimed at the man's chest, cold enough to momentarily stop breath. It was instantly followed by a simple blast of magical energy- painful but not particularly spectacular.

It caught him the back, square between the shoulders, burning cold rippling outward in a starburst. He staggered beneath it, but didn't fall, catching himself in time on ice-chair.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Everything hung still. Then...

Then he laughed. A dark, dangerous sound.

Talented little rabbits, weren't they?

His head lifted, white teeth flashing, eyes glowing bright beneath the ebony lenses, and he whipped around, impossibly, inhumanly fast, rounding on Morrigan.

He was on her in a blink, easily blocking whatever blow she attempted to defend herself with, and striking again, arm stiff, heel of his palm hitting the center of her chest. A blow that would break bone, crush organs, stop a heart mid-beat.

Maximus could move fast. Maximus could move very fast, if he wanted to, and he had launched himself towards Wesker, knife at the ready--

But he wasn't fast enough. He wasn't nearly fast enough to stop that inhuman blow.

He watched Morrigan crumple to the ground and fury rose through his blood.

He didn't say anything. Didn't yell, or scream. He didn't even pause - merely extending his stride to where Wesker now was rather than where he had expected him to be - knife in his hand and aimed squarely for the dip in the back of the neck (he knew where it was, even under the parka) - seven inches of blade coming down with full force.

There was no time for hesitation, when one was walking with Gods and Monsters.

Edited 2013-02-12 15:18 (UTC)

A gloved hand shot out, closing around Maximus wrist in a hard, shackle-like grip just as the knife point began to sink to the soft down of Wesker's coat. A boot slipped back, sliding between Maximus', giving Wesker the leverage he needed to dip forward and roll the man over his shoulder, flipping Maximus onto the cold, hard ice.

Standing over him, Wesker clucked his tongue patronizingly.

Tsk, tsk, tsk.

He braced himself before his back hit the ice - hard - so though he was winded he wasn't completely at a loss.

Another man might have given Wesker a moment to gloat, and themselves another moment to catch their breath. Another man would have died.

Maximus wasn't giving him any chances. He immediately rolled, pulling himself up to his knees in seconds, the knife still gripped in his hand. Wesker was strong - inhumanly strong - and faster than he was. But Maximus had taken beatings before. He wasn't going to die without a fight. He launched himself at Wesker's leg, knife aimed to drive into his thigh from the side, but the least important movement of his attack. All his body weight was thrown forward just under Wesker's center of gravity. If that didn't throw off his footing...

It's reflex, it's faith in his abilities, in the virus, that had Wesker ignoring the knife. In recognizing it for the fake-out it was.

It was memory.

The Arcadia. Of Chris - the true Redfield - slamming into him, trying, desperately, futilely, to save his sister.

The blade sank into the flesh of his leg in a stab of lightening that had his vision flashing black and white - but other than a grunt of pain, of a sneering curl of his lip he didn't react. He braced himself instead, bowing as Maximus hit him, an arm slipping around the other man, holding firm as they slid across the ice. The other came down, his elbow cracking against Maximus' spine.

Edited 2013-02-14 15:18 (UTC)

He hadn't expected the blade to connect, let alone sink into the man's leg, especially when the rest of his attack failed so utterly. He didn't even realise it had until he felt warm blood on his fingers, and he ripped the blade towards him, tearing through flesh.

He collapsed to one knee as Wesker's elbow came down - a deep crack somewhere inside him gently letting him know that a rib was broken. (He could still move, so it wasn't his back.)

He lashed out again, a little higher, determined at least to cripple Wesker, or find the artery in his thigh --

But even now the blood from the first wound was slowing.

He could smell the blood, his own - metallic and hot - and Maximus' rushing and pooling around his injuries, pressing against the skin. He could hear their heartbeats, beating together like war drums.

He could hear the fabric of his pant-leg ripping, his own flesh tearing as the knife - firelight winking off its bloodied smile - cut into him again. Hear it, even as the pain raced across his nerves.

But the second cut didn't stop him any more than the first had. He brought his uninjured leg up, knee smashing into Maximus's sternum - more grinding, more breaking - and then, hands gripping under the man's arms, flung him aside. As if the grown man were nothing more than a toy.

Broken and discarded.

Edited 2013-02-14 16:56 (UTC)

Maximus hit the ice with a loud crack, the dangerous rumble lasting several seconds after he hit. He was winded, and indeed, broken - something in him had shattered and he could no longer feel his legs, or move them.

He coughed, blood coming to his lips, eyes opening to glare up at Wesker despite the pain.

And he knew what to do.

He raised his arm - knife somehow still bottled in his fist - and slammed it back, hard, against the ice. And again. And again. A terrible creak erupted and then a loud grown, the entire wall of ice shuddering.

Wesker's head snapped up, his mouth dropping open as he watched the webbing track across the walls. The icy veins bulging, the cavern hissing.

He turned, chin dropping, moving as only he could - but it wasn't enough.

The walls came down in roaring, glittering wave. Something struck him, there was a burst of pain, blood in the back of his mouth, and pressure and weight, so very much-

-and then nothing.

Neither alive, nor dead, he rested in the arms of the virus. An ancient place. Primal. Grey and amniotic.

It was safe. Warm.

He slept and dreamed of waking.

The first block came down on his legs, so he saw it rather than felt it, the weight crushing his knee almost instantly. it was with a strange detachment that he realized that those were his legs and he was dying, but he'd nearly died once, likely actually died (though he did not remember it) and he felt no fear facing him now.

He closed his eyes as the glacier crumbled and fell, waiting for the warm arms of his wife, the beaming smile of his son...

But the only embrace he found was the cold, crushing ice and the death that it brought.

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