RS, Author, Novelist on Nostr: #Writever 8 deuxième partie — Asile (Asylum) [/Whilst the original post ...
#Writever 8 deuxième partie — Asile (Asylum)
[/Whilst the original post (https://eldritch.cafe/@sfwrtr/111201395523479838) seems fully satisfying and this part unnecessary in light of that, this installment does make both parts into a complete comic book story, with explanations. So, to wit... —RS/]
Dr. Coven
Bruce predicted it to the minute. The /guest/ the vigilante sent us screamed loudly. I heard her as she pounded the metal doors.
"Everyone! Gas masks!" I ordered, even as Phyllis jumped the gun on the button and the outer doors parted. We had five masks on such short notice. I reserved them for the orderlies; guards waited further inside. The Hague Convention prohibited gas attacks. That vigilante didn't care. The cowled menace needed locking up, too!
"Wait! Wait!," cried Bergman as a pink miasma blew in, inundating him. A strap snapped as he turned to run. His eyes went wide, then wild. The paranoid delusion-inducing gas made you fear what you trusted most. Parker and Renfield dragged him off, thrashing and crying.
An agitated Eight Eyes scuttled in, her bare feet and right hand sticking to the guardhouse windows.
A black kerchief tied across her eyes sported blue-green opalescent spots that locked on him.
"Be the first man she sees," Bruce had warned. The petite woman swiped her bustled red child's dress. A puff of white solidified into threads that she threw. Elastic cobwebs hit the doors, contracted, slamming them closed.
With uncanny strength, she sprang, tumbled, and landed on all fours. Hopping spider-like five strides, she bounded upright and ran at me, crying incoherently, arms out. I braced; she wasn't slowing!
I slid back as she embraced me, her hands clawing my back. I wore the swat vest as told. Bruce had claimed her nails injected a paralytic.
Her clothes hid weapons, so I found the buttons down her back, undoing them. When I pushed aside the straps, it crashed to her ankles with a rustling of fabric, weighed down by spinnerets and chemical tanks. The sweaty woman wore no undergarments and, by the smell of it, rarely bathed. Her muscles bulged. An athlete, maybe a featherweight cage fighter—when not allegedly employed as a thief who left mummified men in her wake...
Her legs encircled my hips the instant I lifted her from her cosplay lolita dress. I hefted her bottom with my right arm as we left the hallucinogen gas behind successive fire doors...
Arachniss, Ms. Eight Eyes
Door after door huffed closed behind, muffling the spider army outside. A man carried me like Father had, putting me to bed like Father had. Such a nice room! Tan. Plain padding on the walls. The bed raised my head. Tucked in, doors shut, I felt finally safe.
No kiss, though. I pouted. Men always kissed me!
A nurse inserted an IV and I stared as the silvery needle slid into a vein. Not home then?
The man with the stethoscope wore body armor. Odd.
A nursed taped heavy gloves over my hands.
Heart racing, I thought, /Giant spiders?/ I tilted my head. How? Chitin collapsed under such weight. I felt sheets against my legs, my hips. They'd stripped my gear, too. I reached for my face, but elastic now bound me—
I remembered a caped man throwing a canister, and gasped.
This was very bad...
[Total both parts: 3 hrs composition and rewriting. 2 1/2 hours revision. Author retains copyright.]
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