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simplegenius042 · 7 months

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Another Late WIP Wednesday and a Late 6-sentence WIP Sunday

Tagged by @adelaidedrubman @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @cassietrn and @inafieldofdaisies for WIP Wednesday and invited by @demigoddessqueens to join in for 6-sentence WIP Sunday.

Rules for the 6-sentence WIP Sunday: Make a new post and share six sentences of an upcoming WIP. Then tag some friends!

Tagging @strangefable @poisonedtruth @voidika @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @chazz-anova @derelictheretic @ec-10 @gaeadene @g0dspeeed @henbased @jillvalentinesday @neverthesameneveranother @deputy-morgan-malone @strafethesesinners @vampireninjabunnies-blog @wrathfulrook @shallow-gravy @a-rose-in-a-garden-of-weeds @snake-in-the-garden @ladyofedens-blog @little-wolf-seed @minilev and @deputyash + anyone else who wants to join.

One WIP for Far Cry The Silver Chronicles and another for Life, Despair & Monsters. Snippets below the cut.

For WIP Wednesday I got more Silva's Hope. Also... some short action! [NOTE: This fic is still under heavy construction, so some things may or may not change in the future]

[TW: Violence, blood and death]

Upon crawling onto the pond bank, Silva took a moment to still herself and breathe, a choice she knew wasn't the most sensible given the circumstances.

She spat out the pond water, the taste vile and cold like the river water. Her head felt heavy, unfocused, not helped by the darkness of the night. Disoriented from the crash but still conscious, still awake, still alive. Were her fellow co-workers so lucky?

Yes... And no.

She remembered her panic at how limp and stagnant their bodies had been, and Joseph, that falsa profeta bastarda, telling Nancy (of all the people she thought would sell her out, she never once suspected the kind elderly woman who had been a second mentor to the junior deputy like the Sheriff) to stand down.

"No one is coming to save you," he had told her. He had told her like it wasn't a fact she already knew. A lesson she hadn't already learned. A sick, stale joke that only his God seems to find funny, to her expense.

The relief she felt when he left, when the others awoke from what she thought would be their final slumber. The selfish gratitude she felt towards Jannah, the relief that she hadn't survived another disaster alone again.

But it didn't last, she reminded herself. Besides maybe the Mariscal, her fellow colleagues; Hudson, Pratt and Whitehorse were likely captured, taken away by these santos. If the Peggies were anything like the congregation back on the Archipiélagos, then the fates that awaited her mentor and recently acquired friends were either conversion or execution, depending on how patient the cult's beloved profeta really was.

She weakly chortled; a preferred substitute, the mirthless laugh to the strangled sob she wanted to let out. A strange sensation that weighed heavy on her chest. And to think I had escaped, she mused to herself, finding no strength to restrain the thoughts and fears, shaking her head with a clenched jaw, To think I had escaped it all. No longer a prisoner, but a free survivor.

Joseph's words came to mind with more force; the way he called onto his obedient servants to begin "the Reaping", to kill all who stood in their way, that a seal had been broken. That the Collapse had begun. It sickened her, how the words of a man (just a man) like Joseph Seed were no different from Father's own.

The major difference she could tell between the two was that Father succeeded his vision, got what he wanted, and Joseph was just a fraud given too much power and trust. He doesn't know anything about the Collapse. She did. She lived through it.

Hadn't I? Had she not played a hand in the destruction of her people, the justification used to bring the Enforcers to the front doors of her Father's most hated enemy with guns and fire?

The Collapse has begun. That's what the falsa profeta said. The Collapse has begun. The words she had never dreamed to hear, nor wished to have lived to witness. The Collapse. A title. A simple title that was used to rule her life with fear. A title that profeta threw around like it held any weight anymore, as if it didn't prove his words, his status, his so-called visions, were all false.

It had to be.

She embedded her gloved hands into the mud on the bank of the pond, shaking as her protected fingers curled around the wet dirt.

It had to be.

She couldn't accept any alternative, not after what she's seen. What she was left to live with.

The crunch of sticks and dry grass crushed under the weight of approaching boots caught her attention, and the distant hollering tipped her off to their source.

The santos were approaching, and she was still kneeling over on the pond bank. One hand clutching mud. The other shifting around, searching, until it wrapped around a pointed rock, twisting it out of the ground.

The voices were getting louder, the boots approaching closer, though decreased in sound, with voices disappearing as the hunting party separated.

She heard two; one each on both sides of her, confirming her targets. She clutched the mud further into her palm, and the rock was breaking off the bank with ease.

"Do you remember my instructions piccolo boa? On what to do when caught?"

Silva dragged the rock closer to herself, still kneeling over, still small and vulnerable. The enemigo's lights shined close.

"Look weak, and keep whatever you can use close and out of sight."

Silva's heart pounded, but she soundlessly took deep breathes, eyes closed as the light to her right shined onto her figure.

"Atta girl. And when they come closer?"

The santos to her right startled at the sight of her hunched down figure, and he called out to his amigo as he approached closer.

"Found her!"

"Aim for the visors..."

Silva opened her eyes as the two peggies attempted to swarm her, swiftly turning and throwing the clump of mud at the peggie to her right, a bald man with a long beard, his pained groans indicated success but his amigo alarmed his amigo.

She turned to her next target, a man with a smaller beard but long hair. He rushed forward, lifting the butt of his rifle at her kneeling form. As he brought the rifle to her head, she dodged, and with her free hand, latched onto the rifle's stock.

Unveiling the pointed rock, an efficient substitute to her dagger, Silva used the momentum to propel herself up, and bring the peggie closer down, his face stretched into horror as the rock closed in.

"...And hit straight for the eyes."

Droplets of warm crimson and clear fluids splattered on her cheek and chin, an unexpected contrast to the clean kills she was used to with the Enforcers. Shaking away the distinction, she returned her focus to the dead man leaning forward.

Letting go of the embedded rock, she clutched the rifle with both hands, and kicked the man's twitching corpse back before turning around, the thud behind her ignored.

Her first target managed to get the mud out of his eyes, blinking rapidly and tearing up with a curled lip. His face dropped once he saw Silva with a steeled face and his amigo's rifle aimed at him.

She tipped her head at him as she flipped off the safety, a final farewell to the panicked man as he fruitlessly struggled with his own rifle.

And here is a 6-sentence (paragraph) piece for Sonya's Push. Hand over the spotlight Jennifer. There is a bigger fish scarier than you and Dicko, and his name's Malvolio:

Now facing Jennifer and Dicko as they approached, she could see the once anonymous champion's suit was a sharp blue covering a black undershirt, supposedly tailored for his short stature. He seemed to be somewhere in his thirties, and had a rather fine face, dark eyes complimenting his dark hair, which was groomed expertly.

Though Jennifer couldn't deny a sense of disappointment upon seeing the anonymous champion with a winning streak of seventeen matches in person; he wasn't an unusual sight from the regular rich bastard who came here, besides his clubbed cane. He looked rather normal. Though she couldn't deny how unusual it was for a man of supposed wealth like Dicko participating with his own Beastie.

Regardless, she was content with keeping up her facade, holding onto Dicko's arm as they approached him, but Dicko had stopped, almost tugging Jennifer back. She looked to the taller man, confusion breaking through when she saw his transfixed face; shocked really, and one filled with recognition as he utters in surprise, "Malvolio?"

Jennifer blinked as she looked between the two men, and saw this "Malvolio's" lips curl up into an open grin, as he proceeded to give a jovial greeting, "Well Jolly Ho, Dicko! I didn't know you owned this arena. Jeez, it's been a while since we last did business together. How long has it been? Four? Six years?"

Dicko's face remained unchanged, though Jennifer knew he was scrutinizing the short man in front of them with a cautious gaze she's rarely seen on him. Dicko subtly motioned the hallway guards to stand down, leaving Malvolio's companions alone with their contained Beastie. Despite his visible apprehension, he answered Malvolio, "Six years."

Malvolio's dark eyes briefly shifted to Jennifer, but they swiftly reconnected with Dicko's gaze, his grin widening, "Six years? And you still did not forget about little old me? Intriguing. I do hope your life has been luxurious and well in our distance. And I must ask; how have you been treating it?"

#wip wednesday #wip sunday #far cry the silver chronicles #wip: silva's hope #oc: silva omar #far cry 5 #silva when applying advice given to her about breaking through enforcer's visors against a man with no headgear: this will be a clean kill #silva now splattered in blood and eye fluid and realising she's in the present: *kind of mildly surprised*#life despair & monsters #wip: sonya's push #jennifer #dicko #oc: sir enigma malvolio #love death + robots #sonnie's edge #“clubbed cane” that's definitely hasn't been used to murder people #dicko's about to have a bad day not just because things will go wrong but simply because he has to deal with malvolio's unnerving joy

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