Catching Trains & Walks Through Dark Forests ( OTA )

[2onostromo]

Who: Ellen Ripley & YOU!

What: To ride a train, or not to ride a train, that is the question.

When: Early January

Where: Train, Lockwood Forest

Warning(s): N/a, tbd?

All In a Day’s Work

Perhaps mining isn’t the kindest labor Ellen Ripley could have chosen for herself, but she doesn’t care. She needs something. A purpose on this cold, unforgiving rock– if Pumpkin Hollow can be classified as such. It’s dubious her new home exists on any celestial body she’s familiar with, and yet she finds herself pitching eyes upward to probe the clear black sky. For clues, for hints of life elsewhere, for the star systems who’d raised her. Nothing. How lonely.

Into the mines, then. To be swallowed by a new, impenetrable dark. A starless void of dust, rock and precious ore. The maternal drone of an intelligent computer is replaced by the rhythmic clang, clang, clang of her’s and other’s tools. Star systems replaced by a maze of intravenous tunnels. Hauler ships worth multi-millions, responsible for carrying several billion tons of crude oil in their breast-shaped modules, reduced to archaic mine-carts. The drone of men around her– that much hasn’t changed a bit. The utter lack of advanced technology stumps her at first, borne of a time long before her own. But she adapts. Hard not to. What else has she but time, after all?

Her work takes her all the way to Cranes Ridge, a sprawl of dry mountains tucked deep within Lockwood Forest.

When she rises out of the ground, caked in dust and smattered in ore and oil to catch the train home, she finds the sun has gone down. Not unusual, given her long work-hours. But nevertheless perturbing.

The train welcomes her by unhinging its sliding jaw, allowing her entrance into a narrow yet comfortable cabin. It kicks up sparks as it leaves the station. Coughs clouds of black smoke into the still night air. You find her seated in one of several empty rows, wiping her face with a grey cloth.

All in a day’s work.


ALT. No Way Home

Up, up, up out of the ground she climbs. Hauls her belongings to the foot of the train station. She awaits its arrival; a squeal, a kicking of sparks and cough of black smoke clouds as it slows to greet her. She waits. Shuffles from left foot to right. Drops her bag, picks it up again. She spends a great deal of time looking at the stars. They eye her knowingly, pulsating their yellow aura. Speaking their unintelligible language. A deep frown cuts Ellen’s face horizontally.

She waits.

No train, no sparks, no smoke.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Wrenching her bag from the ground, Ripley starts with an irritated fervor down the stairs and into Lockwood Forest. She’ll see her own way home…

BONUS. Wild Card!

Hit me with whatever you've got!

 

Comments

[2onostromo]

Ripley nods, sliding into place behind Chris. "So long as you keep an eye out in front of us."

The air here is oppressive. Colder, somehow. Energy fluxes from an inexplicable point between the trees.

[thelatechrisfreeman]

Chris nods, "Yes, of course."

They walk along that narrowed path, extra careful out of worry that the refrozen snow continues on the ground, and shiver all the more as the icy walls rise higher on either side. The walk is quiet, until the halfway point. (Too far to turn back?)

'Come to me...'

Chris hears the Tristitia as a voice in their head. Past experience has taught them that an attempt to resist will make that voice louder, and cause pain. And at the moment, well... the only way out is through.

They exhale a heavy breath and say quietly, "She's up ahead. Waiting for us."

[2onostromo]

Icy walls climb, climb, climb; at first to their ankles, continuing on a steady upward slope to their knees, waists... She can place a hand at either side and press as if she were a rat in a maze. To escape would mean to jump hurdles over these slippery barriers; easer said than done.

She's up ahead. Waiting.

Ripley breathes vexed air through gnashed teeth. "She picked a damn good place to do it. I don't suppose an axe to the face would do any good?"

[thelatechrisfreeman]

"It wouldn't kill her, but she's got to be solid to grab us. An axe to the face would damage her body." Chris considers, and then nods, saying softly, "Do enough damage and we can drive her away, or make a run for it when she's too weak to chase us. That's how Taran' saved me when she went after me."

Chris gives a wry smile. "Of course, the easiest thing would be to let her grab me and make a run for it alone while she's occupied. I won't hold it against you if you decide to do that rather than axe her in the face."

[2onostromo]

She matches Chris's wry smile, swinging her axe to rest on her shoulder. "What kinda thanks would that be, if I ditched you? You saved me, so I'll take the swing to her face and we'll both make a run for it. That should give us plenty of time to escape."

Which might turn out to be easier said than done. But she's spearheaded through danger, why should this be any different? Take the shot and make the shot, simple as that.

She sends a wary look over Chris's shoulder; into danger, into the misty unknown where darkness swirls in clouds the color of ink.

"Ready?"

[thelatechrisfreeman]

"Yes. Let's go."

Chris waits for a breath, making sure that she's ready and following, and then they pick up the pace -- the two of them should emerge from the icy walls of the narrowed path much sooner than the Tristitia expects.

She's a cloaked figure with a caved-in chest, already reaching her wasted arms out to Chris as they approach. Chris dodges to one side, and stomps a foot down on the trailing end of Tristitia's rags dragging in the snow. It should keep her in place for Ellen to strike.

[2onostromo]

Their steps drum faster, faster against frost covered ground, kicking up little flakes and fractals of ice on their way. It's a wonder Ripley hasn't slipped— isn't used to this kind of weather. Or any weather, really, having been borne to a Lunar colony.

The air chills to a knife's edge as they near her. Black birds, frenzied by the supernatural raucous, flap wildly upward.

And there she is; a hideosity dressed in rags, whose corpse face— cracked by ice or sorrow or maybe both— gapes open in a low, rasping moan. Ellen winces at the sight of her, grips her axe tight and rears it back— don't miss don't miss don't miss—

Shhhhnk!

Crack-

Ripley opens her eyes— hadn't realized she'd closed them— to find her axe's edge embedded down the center of the old crier's face. Pieces fall away like cracked porcelain, her arms waving limply through the air in its attempt to reach for her.

She tries to wrench her blade away. It does not move.

Ice climbs slowly up the head, down the handle...

"Fuck."

[thelatechrisfreeman]

[[ OOC: Oooh, I've been setting this up the whole thread, and I'm so happy to get here! :D I hope it entertains you, too! ]]

Remember that canvas bag that Chris has been wearing this whole time? Remember how they slipped their hand into that bag at least once before?

Well, they do it again now -- and withdraw their loaded revolver. With the Tristitia focused on Ellen's attack, it doesn't even notice when Chris raises the weapon to her neck and fires at point-blank range.

That spreading ice through its physical form makes the whole thing pretty fragile, and the concussive force of the bullet shatters the head from the body. Possibly also breaks the head off of Ellen's pickaxe.

The Tristitia's headless body collapses to the snow like a heap of rags. And Chris reaches out their free hand to grab Ellen by the arm.

"Run, before she has a chance to reform!"

(Chris did say they'd do their best. And they're a pretty good shot with their gun.)

[2onostromo]

_{[ AHHH this is LOVELY omg. I've been loving this thread but this in particular made me so excited! ]}

The air is split by a sudden burst of heat and smoke and clever timing, bullet chasing from its starting-pen, bounding the short distance to Tristitia's gullet and—

and—

Bang!

A shattering of glass or flesh or of the thick ice wall that flanks them, Ripley cannot tell. The ghoul woman shatters as if in slow-motion. Her pieces don't merely fall away, they're sent flying. No longer human-esque but a projectile of cracked white wrinkles and the leftover traces of a scream. With no throat to execute the noise, it sizzles out in pitiful tandem with the bullet's cry.

A deafening split, like a femur cracked by force, as her axehead comes away from its wooden handle. It, too, is sent in a dozen flying pieces. One strikes a tree deeply. Another lacerates the sheet of ice in front of her.

And in her ears, a flat pulsing ring.

White, if it were a noise.

Ripley's head is drowned by it. Her nose trickles a thin scarlet line.

Ba-dum...Ba-dum...Ba-dum...

The shock of the noise stills her, but not for long. For Chris's hand closes around her arm, willing her with words she can't entirely make out. It takes one or two hard tugs to get poor Ellen moving, but she does, falling into an unsteady rhythm beside her companion.

[thelatechrisfreeman]

Well, shit. That was a slight miscalculation, wasn't it? But then... how does one account for the effects of supernatural ice..?

Chris is worried about that nosebleed, and grateful when the shock fades enough for Ellen to come back to herself and move. They keep hold of her, settling for an easier pace -- more of a jog than a real run -- that at least keeps the distance growing. The Tristitia needs a physical form to harm people, and the pair have pretty well disposed of that for now, but it would be foolishness to linger.

Silence dominates the last leg of their trek. Chris picked up on her difficulty in hearing them and figures she needs some time to recover. (It's not like Chris had time to don ear protection either in this case.) But even if both could hear perfectly, if that single shot wasn't still faintly ringing in their bones, Chris thinks that both might remain quiet.

There's a gleam of moonlight on water up ahead soon enough -- the river that cuts a border between the dark dangers of the forest and the relative safety of the town. Chris gives her arm another tug and points it out.

"Almost there."

[2onostromo]

If there's anything Ellen Ripley is more than capable of, it's pressing on through fear. Taking those step-step-steps forward even if every alarm in her head, every muscle fiber in her body, begs her to stop, collapse, give in.

Adrenaline's a powerful thing.

So are strangers with even stranger clairvoyances.

After what feels like an entire night's worth of walking and a new, splitting headache, the woods begin to part, the threat of danger not so immediate now. Gun-induced deafness dissipates to allow room for the forest's natural symphony; a caw here, the trill of crickets there. Water gurgles somewhere in the distance, a marker of their nearing safety.

Anger shoves fear to the side once it knows it's safe to do so.

Ripley staggers, slows, tugs at the arm which holds her's. There's a knot in her throat she can't seem to push out.

"Are you insane—! Shooting at close range like that— did no one teach you how to handle that thing!?"

[thelatechrisfreeman]

"Shut up!" Chris snaps -- she's unknowingly scored a direct hit to Chris's issues with that question -- but they do relax their grip so she can get free of them whenever she wants to. "I didn't fucking know that would happen, all that brittle shit flying everywhere. I've seen the aftermath of contact shots, and that wasn't it!"

Despite all the talking, they do keep walking -- they aren't it town just yet, after all.

[2onostromo]

“If you shoot glass, what happens? It shatters! Why should ice be any different? Or her? She cracked like ceramic. What— did you expect her to disappear in a cloud of smoke?”

Ripley’s voice is a shrill corvid’s call, feet floundering where they crunch through ice. She hasn’t let go of Chris just yet— despite her ire, steady footing is still a challenge. In the verbal department, however, she’s perfectly recovered.

“Christ—“ She palms her forehead, exasperated. Tired. Ready to collapse into bed and forget tonight ever happened. “I thought for a second you were going to shoot me.”

[thelatechrisfreeman]

Pardon me for not being perfect.

"I've got a lot more experience dealing with the dead, not demons and... former demons." Chris huffs, chews at their lip for a few seconds, glancing over at her. Then: "It was a mistake. I didn't mean for you to get hurt."

There, that ought to go over better than the first impulse. Even if it doesn't, well... neither of them are dead tonight, so that's something. As for her thoughts on them shooting her...

"When you'd just show up the day after tomorrow and be able to tell people I did it?" Chris sounds confused on that point, but then, "Well, no, you wouldn't be used to that yet, and I guess it does look pretty bad... someone shows up at random, walks you into the forest, and pulls out a gun. I'm sorry -- for scaring you, and for hurting you."

[2onostromo]

Ripley glances right back at them, chewing the inside of her cheek, feeling the membrane bulge. In their trek toward town she'd forgotten all about her nose. (No— she hadn't exactly forgotten, just preoccupied her mind differently. An animal doesn't stop to lick its wounds until the danger is gone, isn't that right? And until she's in her little cot, she'll assume the danger's everywhere).

Their mentioning of getting her hurt makes her train her senses differently, however. Her tongue skates above her upper lip, tastes the half dried blood there.

"Well, at least it's dead. ...It'd better be goddamn dead."

A look over her shoulder.

The town's lights gleam in the still-hanging mist.

"You're right. I'm not used to that. And I'm not so keen on dying and coming back, either." Ripley snaps, breathes sharply through the gaps in her gnashed teeth and feels herself settle a little. She waves a hand. "...No, it's okay. You did what you had to. Thank you— really. For taking care of her, I mean." A dry laugh. "I probably would be dead were it not for your damn gun or you dropping out of that tree."

[thelatechrisfreeman]

[[ OOC: Apologies for the delay! Real life responsibilities cropped up... but I think we're closing in on a wrap either way? I've had a blast with this. ]]

Dead enough, Chris thinks and does not say. They had already said the Tristitia re-forms, but the damage dealt tonight -- and fear of more of it, at her hands and theirs -- should keep it from pursuing either.

Instead, Chris smiles faintly at her thanks and dips their head a moment. "I'm glad I was able to change things. You're very welcome."

It's a quiet that curls around them now, with the soft sound of night birds making a landing, or the wind stirring amid the trees. Not the silence of before, tense and awaiting a predator.

The stars shine above, and the town's lights shine ahead, and their two paths of footprints leave shadowed spots in the snow.

[2onostromo]

_{[ Ditto! I'd love to write more of these two in the future. ]}

"If I have to make this hike again, I'll be keeping an eye out for you."

She looks toward the cobbled path that leads into town. And further, between thick pines, at the moonlit exterior of the southern train station. Rarely do folks come on or step off its platform so late into the night. Tonight is no exception.

A noise. Wheels squealing wet and hot against rails.

As if goaded on by her watching, the missing train car rolls slowly into place.

Ripley deflates. "You've got to be kidding me."