[ At times, it feels like trudging through water, when the grass is especially high and thick. If he closed his eyes, it might sound almost like ocean waves — not the harsh swells of icy cold water, but the kind that came before. He enjoyed being on the sea, once. The vast openness was once a freedom, not a limbo.
He doesn't understand what he's looking at. What's coming. Something in his mind thinks beast, monster, creature; he's been hunted by something, pursued — is it Tuunbaq? No, something's different, something's strange, and he doesn't move. He's too stunned. Maybe a second or two later he'd finally scramble for his gun, heave it clumsily into his hands, take aim, try to shoot, but then the thing's swerving past him — barely, its presence so close and fast that it almost knocks him back off his feet. He stumbles back, gasping, wide-eyed and horrified and unbelieving of what he's seeing as it screams and rocks, unsteady — what... is this? Some sort of machine?
Yes, it's... parts put together, like a locomotive, but there's no.... tracks, no railroad, this isn't.... what is this?
He's gaping, heart pounding desperately, lungs working frantically for breath and finding little of it in his shock as he shirks back, one hand up in front of his face, terrified of the sight and reeling from the fact he'd almost made collision with it. It's impossible for the mind to process anything — and then the thing's opening up and something's coming out of it, and Little, fortunately, isn't a man prone to screaming, instead stricken into complete and utterly terrified silence.
It's a— a woman. A woman, which is a fresh shock all in itself, and it takes him a weird few long beats to even realise she's pointing a weapon at him. His mind is a roaring dizzying rush, confused and overwhelmed, and he's just gaping at her with saucer-wide eyes, somehow managing to stand upright against the wind that nudges insistently, again and again, and the way his body shakes in response. It would be too easy to tip right over where he stands.
Finally, he sees it. Belatedly, brain slow to process it, the barrel of a gun fixed to him like one single black eye, unblinking and unyielding. She aims a weapon at him! Finally, Little reacts, a complete contrast to the woman's strange, frightening calm — his hands tremble uncontrollably as he struggles to remove his own gun from himself, a truly piteous display of fumbling and shaking and several failed attempts. The strap slips from his spasming fingers once, then twice; he hits himself in the side with the shotgun as he tries to remove it — she said slowly but he's working fast and messily. It's only once he manages to unhook it from his side and has it in his hands (upside down) that his panicked pace drops to a crawl, and, eyes still huge and fixed on her with terror, he starts to lower it to the ground.
Slowly, slowly, he crouches, sets it there in the grass, and he might not be able to find footing again after, but somehow he does. But when he stands again, he does feel faint from nausea, and he swallows against it. Now that both hands are free, he can hold them both out in front of himself. As he does, his eyes flit for a moment back to the... thing, the wayward... machine which might as well truly be a monster for how foreign and terrible it is.
Then back to her, the person who'd crawled out of the thing, and he swallows again. Again. Words don't come easily, but he says all he knows to, and it's— almost absurdly polite, in the face of everything. ]
Madam. [ She's dressed unlike anything he's ever seen, a fact he can make no sense of and observes with more horror... and her hair is free and loose and wild (also deeply terrifying, to him,) but she is a woman. ] I assure you, I mean no threat. I believe I might be— might be lost.
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He doesn't understand what he's looking at. What's coming. Something in his mind thinks beast, monster, creature; he's been hunted by something, pursued — is it Tuunbaq? No, something's different, something's strange, and he doesn't move. He's too stunned. Maybe a second or two later he'd finally scramble for his gun, heave it clumsily into his hands, take aim, try to shoot, but then the thing's swerving past him — barely, its presence so close and fast that it almost knocks him back off his feet. He stumbles back, gasping, wide-eyed and horrified and unbelieving of what he's seeing as it screams and rocks, unsteady — what... is this? Some sort of machine?
Yes, it's... parts put together, like a locomotive, but there's no.... tracks, no railroad, this isn't.... what is this?
He's gaping, heart pounding desperately, lungs working frantically for breath and finding little of it in his shock as he shirks back, one hand up in front of his face, terrified of the sight and reeling from the fact he'd almost made collision with it. It's impossible for the mind to process anything — and then the thing's opening up and something's coming out of it, and Little, fortunately, isn't a man prone to screaming, instead stricken into complete and utterly terrified silence.
It's a— a woman. A woman, which is a fresh shock all in itself, and it takes him a weird few long beats to even realise she's pointing a weapon at him. His mind is a roaring dizzying rush, confused and overwhelmed, and he's just gaping at her with saucer-wide eyes, somehow managing to stand upright against the wind that nudges insistently, again and again, and the way his body shakes in response. It would be too easy to tip right over where he stands.
Finally, he sees it. Belatedly, brain slow to process it, the barrel of a gun fixed to him like one single black eye, unblinking and unyielding. She aims a weapon at him! Finally, Little reacts, a complete contrast to the woman's strange, frightening calm — his hands tremble uncontrollably as he struggles to remove his own gun from himself, a truly piteous display of fumbling and shaking and several failed attempts. The strap slips from his spasming fingers once, then twice; he hits himself in the side with the shotgun as he tries to remove it — she said slowly but he's working fast and messily. It's only once he manages to unhook it from his side and has it in his hands (upside down) that his panicked pace drops to a crawl, and, eyes still huge and fixed on her with terror, he starts to lower it to the ground.
Slowly, slowly, he crouches, sets it there in the grass, and he might not be able to find footing again after, but somehow he does. But when he stands again, he does feel faint from nausea, and he swallows against it. Now that both hands are free, he can hold them both out in front of himself. As he does, his eyes flit for a moment back to the... thing, the wayward... machine which might as well truly be a monster for how foreign and terrible it is.
Then back to her, the person who'd crawled out of the thing, and he swallows again. Again. Words don't come easily, but he says all he knows to, and it's— almost absurdly polite, in the face of everything. ]
Madam. [ She's dressed unlike anything he's ever seen, a fact he can make no sense of and observes with more horror... and her hair is free and loose and wild (also deeply terrifying, to him,) but she is a woman. ] I assure you, I mean no threat. I believe I might be— might be lost.
[ ....That would probably be it, Edward, yes. ]