Wasail on Hiatus

Hello everyone.

Due to a personal choice on my part, Wasail is on hiatus from this date forward for an indeterminate amount of time. 

#64 - First Day on the Job

He looked nervously to his side as he watched through the one-way glass. His gaze was met evenly, a reassurance in his method.

“You'll be all right,” came her voice, “The first is always the hardest.”

With that, he took a deep breath and opened the door. A single, old woman was seated in the center of the room, her eyes meeting his warmly. He had to squint a bit in the bright light that shone from overhead.

“Mrs. Gaster,” he began while trying to keep his voice even, “Do you know why you are here?”

He stepped over to her, taking the only other available seat across the small table. He watched as a small smile decorated her fragile looking face.

“Oh,” she began, the smile widening, “I'm just waiting here for my son to take me to church. He told me to wait here. Have you seen him?”

He wiped a thin layer of sweat that had begun to build upon his brow.

“No ma'am,” he replied, “You are in a police station. This is an interrogation room.”

He swallowed hard at now taking notice of the look of surprise etched across the old woman's face.

“Early this morning, you were shopping at a grocery store,” he went on to say, “Do you remember?”

“Of course,” she said, now seeming a little fearful, “That's where my son took me before church. He was helping me pick out some food. Then he told me to come here.”

“Mrs. Gaster,” he repeated her name, hoping it would give him strength, “That is how you recall your day's events?”

He merely nodded, those piercing eyes upon him the entire time. With an audible sigh, he procured a folder that was cradled within his hands.

“Mrs. Gaster,” he said yet again, “You shot seven people in that store.”

He placed the folder before the woman, opening it to a series of grainy pictures.

“These were taken from the crime scene,” he continued on while trying to ignore the woman's expression, “These are stills showing you pulling out a gun from your purse and firing.”

He pointed at one of them. She shook her head from side rapidly.

“I remember checking out my groceries with my son-”

“Mr. Gaster is dead,” he said with more volume and conviction, “As are three others. He was shot in the leg; emergency response could not resuscitate him.”

The woman merely stared, her eyes fixed upon the pictures.

“We also have numerous witnesses at the scene saying that you did this,” he concluded, “I'm afraid we are going to-”

A surprisingly strong fist struck him across the face, slicing the sentence short. He toppled out from the chair.

“I did not do any such thing!” the woman roared, standing from her chair in such a way that belied her age.

“That's enough!”

An officer had just stepped into the room, weapon drawn.

“Mrs. Gaster,” he began while taking a step forward, “You are under arrest for first-degree murder and assault of an officer!”

“I didn't do anything!”

The last word came out as a shriek. She charged for the officer, her face contorted in pure rage. He was prepared for such a move, however, and was able to grab a hold of her arms before she could attack. As he placed her torso upon the center table, he saw his superior officer hovering over him. She held out a hand.

“The first one is always the hardest, rookie,” she stated as he took her gesture to help him to his feet, “And yours was definitely one that we will be talking about for a long time.”

#63 - Wren

Wren...

The word reached his ears with a wavy and unfamiliar timbre. Strange name, he thought. Who's name was it?

A light stinging patted at his cheek. A loud, protesting groan escaped his tired lungs, followed by the intake of the thick, salty air around him. Strangely, it filled him with an odd sense of calm; a brief memory of a woman he had once met upon the whitewashed, sandy beaches of his home. He had always remembered her smile, one of utter uncaring and novel kindness.

“Ey, Wren, ye still alive man?” the voice filled his head once again with added volumes of clarity and sense.

His eyes slowly opened, another pained growl echoing within his throat at the action. The world was uncomfortably blurry and excessively sharp at the same time. He blinked several times slowly, tears washing away the sting of salt water and sand.

Sand?

He attempted to sit up at the thought, but was forced back due to an overpowering wave of nausea and dizziness. He felt a strong hand come in contact with his bare chest and force him back to the ground.

“Ye still are alive, aren't ye?” the voice now spoke with an unnatural clarity.

Something found it's way into his limp hand, his fingers weakly curling around the object.

“Drink it,” the voice commanded softly.

His watery eyes shifted down to the object cradled within his hand. A wooden cup.

He brought it to his cracked lips tentatively, sampling the beverage with a sheepish tongue. He quickly gulped it down at the realization of his extreme thirst.

“Good te see ye still alive, Wren,” the man standing over him now muttered, “it be a wonder that any o' us are.”

“What happened?” he managed to say as his strength began returning to him in minuscule scraps.

The man shrugged. Wren thought he remembered his name to be Cedric.

“We was sailin' the blue yonder, when our ship scraped 'gainst somethin' on the bottom,” he explained, “turned the whole bugger on it's side, it did. I woke up here meself, lookin' fer others that still live.”

Cedric left him then, the wooden mug still in his grasp, his head filled with lazy thought. He had a difficult time recalling the events Cedric had spoke of; perhaps he had hit his head in the crash, he thought.

He sat up a second time, the waves of sickness absent. A shallow sigh blew from his nostrils as his eyes scanned his surroundings slowly. A large peninsula was present to his far left, the ocean mist tinting the distant cliffs a light aqua. Lightly lapping waves washed from the ocean, far enough to lick at the heels of his bare feet above the moist, white ground.

Gulls were heard overhead and to the peninsula beyond. His eyes looked downward at the blue horizon before him. How were they going to get home, he thought. How, and what if they did not?

Reguardless of the hundreds of questions that pounded in his exhausted skull, he slumped back upon the earth and shut his bloodshot eyes. Sleep took him surprisingly quick, a shaky sigh leaving him just as he lost consciousness.

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#62 - The Moon

It shimmers from the tops of the trees, setting the walls and rooftops aglow with weak and pale light. My back flattens against the nearest edge, nodding a thought of gratitude for it's assistance. I strain my eyes as my head falls upward. I reach within the side of my belt, drawing out two heavy items. I take one in each hand while searching the imposing wall before me. With the added light above, I quickly locate cracks in the masonry. I swing the right tool, then the left; taking pause only to shove my toes into the cold material. I repeat the motion, my trek upon the wall hastened by the ability to see more clearly than I was anticipating.

My head peeks just above the top stone. With quick, darting movements, I take in the surrounding area with wild eyes. A single man stands atop the structure, his body heavily-clad in boisterous armor. I wait for him to change direction, the muscles within my arms crying out to be relieved of their rigorous duty of keeping me silently aloft. The man turns suddenly, as if hearing something from the opposite side of the wall. Fear entangles my heart for only a moment, the control of many training sessions calming it like a mother's embrace. Deftly, I reach into my robe once again, my fingers closing around the hardened steel of a handle. I mutter yet another word of thanks to the above as I place the small weapon in my one hand. I knead my other palm against itself, a warming sensation evident upon the skin. As I spread the sticky substance across the length of the blade, my eyes focus back upon the man. He stood no more than a few clicks away, his buttocks jutting out a bit as he leans over the wall. I search him quickly; an exposed elbow, a strip of metal missing at the knee. I spot his naked fingers gripping at the barrier.

With one, final muster of strength I hurl the item within my hand. A small smile tugs at my lips as it strikes at the man's little finger, a slight yelp of surprise emanating from him. He turns around for a moment, as if to strike. Then, as if a switch turned within his body, he collapses.

“Hey!”

I bit down upon my lip while trying to look for a way to escape. A head turn to my right reveals another man, now steadily moving toward the fallen guard. How had I not seen him? Stealth was not an option as the cold steel of a broadsword was whipped in my direction. I rolled away from the assault, pulling out my climbing tools in desperation. I was not the fighter.

“Guards! A-”

The man seemed confused, as if forgetting what words he should shout to his comrades. I looked at him with wild eyes; an arrow hilt now protruded neatly from his sternum. It's purplish hue sent great waves of relief flooding through me.

“Pure Sterontium is not an easy metal to achieve in this part of the world,” I jeered with a tone barely above whisper.

“Neither is toxin from the Barrom Root.”

I would have laughed out loud if given the opportunity. I wheeled around, already knowing whom would grace my gaze. The imposing figure stood easily half a click taller than me, his smile set alight from the blessed light from the above.

“Selena,” he muttered, “I thought I would never see you again.”

All the adrenaline within me melted away in a moment. I ran to him, my tools threatening to give both of us away as they clattered to the floor. I cared little for them now.

“Arduin,” I answered, pulling the man in for a long-awaited embrace, “I'm ready to continue where we left off.”

We stayed like that for a moment, the cool winter air sending wisps of his hair to tickle at my neck.

“We certainly could use another member for the resistance,” came his reply, “I suppose you will want to be filled in as soon as possible?”

I merely nodded into his chest.

“I didn't expect any less,” came his response, “Welcome back, daughter.”

#61 - The Heart of the Queen (Part 2)

“Lieutenant!” the marine to her left shouted over the gunfire of their rifles, “There is no way out for the three of us.”

She looked at him curiously as the Zerg rampaged toward them.

“But there might be a chance for you,” he stated.

He flicked a switch upon his combat suit and dug into a compartment on the outer portion of his armor. He handed her two syringes.

“Take one now!” he said, “Stim Packs. The only way you'll have the guts or the speed to get the hell out of here!”

He watched her with cold gray eyes. She longed to thank him somehow for this selfless act. Both of them knew that he was going to die, right along with his comrade. They were willing to sacrifice themselves so that she might live.

“Do it now!” he commanded.

She obeyed, her trembling hands quickly jamming one of the vials into a compartment for safekeeping. Without any delay, she uncapped the needle from the remaining syringe and thrust it into her arm, pushing the yellowish liquid into her bloodstream. Her senses immediately sharpened to a painful caliber. Her body began to feel lighter.

“There!” the marine said, his voice sounding piercing and uneven in her head, “A hole!”

He gestured to an area behind them with his weapon, a few scattered Zerglings being the only barricade between her and escape. To freedom.

Both marines turned and fired at the weakened flank, the smallish beasts collapsing in pools of blood. Kerrigan seized the desperate opportunity. She sprinted for the makeshift exit in the wall of enemies, before they could take notice. Just as she had reached the opening, a Hydralisk sprang up in front of her. Its orange tinted eyes bored into her while a saliva-coated maw of a mouth bore rows of sharp teeth. She quickly dragged her foot backward and kicked the beast hard in its middle. It fell backward in a frenzied, thrashing movement, Kerrigan stomping upon it in her path of escape. She cried out as she suddenly felt strong forces latch a hold of both of her arms and back. She fought against the force, the drugs circulating through her body combined with raw adrenaline granting her an unprecedented strength. She felt claws rip and tear at her armor and clothing underneath. She grit her teeth together as acid burned her skin.

With one final muster of force, she tore free of the grip upon her and ran as fast as her tired muscles would allow. She heard throaty growls and the rickety sounds of pursuit behind her, it spurring on her flee. She felt herself move at unparalleled speeds, the ground feeling numb underneath her.

At last, she thought, she was out of the watchful sight of those Overlords. The ones that could easily detect her with their piercing eyes each time she had activated her cloaking mechanism. She immediately threw her wrist out in front of her and punched at one of the buttons. Once she felt it commence, she took a hard right down a steel path that led to a larger platform. She felt bits and hunks of her armor slide from her body and fall clattering to the floor, running the risk of giving away her position. She prayed to an unknown god that the hardware controlling her cloaking device remain in tact.

She took another right and ducked behind the corner of a large, man-made wall. She pressed her back to the cold steel; rising and falling chest and pounding heartbeat her only company as she tentatively peeked around the side. They were gone. She had won.

Sarah would have experienced a silent celebration in her chest had she not felt two things at that time. First, she hurt. She peeled her back away from the wall to see her own blood streaked across it; likely claw wounds from the relentless Zerg. Second, she was cold. She clicked off the cloaking device to notice most of her armor had either broken off of her, or was too torn to offer heat or protection. With some effort and painful frustration of moving her injured body, she removed all the broken armor. Her two combat boots, a functional, steel belt and her right arm segment were the only pieces of her suit that weren't clawed, broken or burned by acid. Her clothing underneath didn't fare too much better. Although most of her thick, woolen leggings had survived the attack, the standard issue insulating tunic she wore for warmth was mostly shredded. She removed the tunic and tore off what she could use and covered herself, being sure to wrap her injuries tightly. As she finished, Sarah leaned against the steel wall once again, her breath starting to slow.

She huddled there, trying to gain as much warmth upon the chilly platform as possible. Bruised, cold, burned and half naked, but still alive, Kerrigan sat and waited. For a sign, perhaps. For help.