Memory Logs

Trapped

8. Trapped

[ Encounter 103; Unknown. ]

Pain.

Pain bloomed through his whole body, beginning in his chest and flowering out through his limbs. From the top of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes, fire burned him, mutilated him, curdled his soundless screams of agony.

And the entire time, he heard the voice of his father, taunting him, berating him, like lashes on his skin.

This was it. This was the harshest punishment he'd ever received at the hands of the Entity; this was so excruciating that he was sure he would wither away into nothing and simply... cease to exist.

Then again, he supposed this was well-deserved. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to march onto the snowy grounds of Ormond and rip the Legion to shreds, to - dare he say it - defend the little red-head to which he seemed so attached... but nothing like that had ever been done before. The other killers had to have been talking about it. Whispering. Confused, or angry, or even bewildered. The killers killed, and the survivors survived. It was a firm line that neither party ever crossed, the one common rule in his hellish wasteland; know your role, do your job.

But he remembered the way she felt in his arms, the way she stared up at him with a mixture of confusion and awe in those blue eyes, and he grit his teeth to bear his punishment, because if given the choice, he would do it again. He would blur the lines - no, break them - and would come to her aid whenever he possibly could.

Evan MacMillan fell to the ground harshly with a grunt, the burning sensation gone. His scarred skin felt extremely raw and tender from the punishment he'd endured. Painstakingly he hauled himself to his feet, searching for his weapon, but found none. In fact - he found nothing, anywhere. This small area was a little circle of grass in the middle of nowhere, floating in space - or nothingness - or wherever the hell this was. It was completely unlike any of the maps the Entity took them to to play their games.

Suddenly a scream descended from above and on instinct, the hulking man reached out; instead of crashing to the ground, the very object of his obsession fell right into his arms. Meg continued to scream, thrashing about in his grasp, her eyes closed - this was pure instinctual panic. She probably hadn't even realized what was going on yet.

A hand lashed out blindly and struck him hard across the shoulder; a low pained growl came from him and he warned her: "enough."

His raspy voice seemed to immediately bring Meg back to reality because her eyes popped open, she went still, and she lifted her gaze to his masked face. Shock was written all over her features. "... Evan...?"

The name earned another rumble, his body stiffening up. He'd long since abandoned that name; he still had no clue why he'd written it for her on that drawing. Or why he'd given it to her. Or why he'd drawn it in the first place. Sketching was something he hadn't done since he was a boy; his father had snuffed out all desire to.

But Meg was inspiration.

He watched her, eyes roving her pretty face; intense blue-gray eyes, a rabbit-like nose, pouty lips, pale lightly freckled skin. That messy red hair that had been the subject of many dreams, both sleeping and awake. A myriad of emotions passed her visage, and finally she seemed to regain full control of her faculties and she wriggled out of his grasp. He set her on her feet, surprising both her and himself at the care with which he did so, and took a step back to give her space, simply looking down at her.