Hyena's Habit

[SonOfAShepherd]

KTSSSS..

A welder lights the otherwise-dim room, casting shadows along the frayed wires and mangled steel plating. Once, this room was meant to be the final check before entering the public hangar; now it would be a staging ground. Atmospheric suits, now riddled with cuts and holes, hang sadly on their racks with their innards on full display. A box of red synthrubber wires lay toppled onto the counter, its contents pulled at like a vulture to carrion.

The fuel was always the hardest part. He could never decide on what to use, because he always wanted to see something new happen. Welding fuel was fine in a pinch, but there was something magical about the way magnesium fires burned, something addicting the way phlogiston flashed as it engulfed a crowd, something magnificent in the way black powder growled just before it went off. Like the air itself couldn’t believe the destruction it beheld, letting out one final gasp before being ripped asunder.

Then came the wires and their little dancing. One loop. Two loops. Into and out. The steps were burned into his mind by now. Scarred, dry hands worked themselves without conscious effort beneath concussive gloves. Surprising, how well they fit; he’d have thanked the miner for them if they weren’t long gone already. They had good taste in gear.
 
“Shame about the hole in their clavicle,” he mumbled, his voice heavy in its mockery and carrying all the pleasantries of a fistful of gravel dragged along a pit of ice.  Not wanting to waste the punchline by keeping it all to himself, his attention leapt to the lump of meat in the corner and announced, “Guess you shoulda worn the helmet too, huh?”

A hissing, malicious sound rumbled from his throat like the rhythmic tapping of a war drum. It shook his ribs and bounced his shoulders. The shiver rolling upwards along his spinal cord culminated in a tingling sensation that clawed its way over his jaws and pulled his lips back into a snarling grin. Bulging eyes, bloodshot with withdrawal and exhaustion, shake momentarily with elation at a memory painted red.



With the audience satisfied, the embers of his laughter cooled and the moment faded. His lungs burned pleasantly as they expanded around the acrid air and his smile faded down to an almost-human level as he let out a sigh. Picking out a bright green timer from his box of goodies, he settled back into his chair and paused. A brow furrowed and robbed him of the rest of his revelry.
 
..How many steps had he taken to get here from Medbay? He turned to look over his shoulder, but couldn’t quite make out the number of tiles. It was coated in blood, soot, and bullet casings – not to mention the power was steadily going out. Each little square was around a quarter-or-a-half second if he sprints; one full second if he’s walking. Shrugging, he rolled the dial forward to the 48 second mark. Then back down to 41 seconds. Then up to 46. Then-

A roar of frustration echoed into the dark as he stood and spiked the timer into the wall of the nearby maintenance tunnel in a fit of rage, the sound of its disassembly clattering away. The dials were too sensitive. They were hard to get RIGHT. He’d love to just be DONE with this job already, but he was ALREADY almost done. SO HE HAD TO FINISH IT.
 
 

Hunched shoulders heaved with labored breaths, their efforts threatening to turn to gasps amidst the burn tissue and shards of lead now co-mingling with muscle. Muttering a string of curses and a promise to gut the person who makes these timers, he yanked his foldable chair back towards himself with his foot and collapsed into it before dragging over another timer. Forty-five seconds; it’s all he needed. No more, no less. Button, toss, pod, hangar, go.

Dropping his newly made parting gift with all the loving care of a hateful step-parent, he slung an orange backpack over his shoulder and braced against pull with only a snarling wince to show for it. Its contents protested in a cacophony of rattling, the metal inside scraping insistently as it warned him to be careful. He’d screwed up before, and he could screw up now. They would all question him and he’d have to explain it again. They wouldn’t stop talking all the time and he’d have to MAKE them stop-

“SHUT. UP.” came his raucous command, leaving no breathing room for healthy discussion or unwanted clarification. It was a promise spoken from the knife’s edge, leading down into his spirit and threatening with its insidiously infectious yet impeccably impossible implications.

.. And so it did. The universe heeded his warning and held its breath, deciding against activating the bombs through misfortune alone. The metal stopped speaking, and the bag resumed its silent vigil to embrace finds purpose in a deliverer of death. Enraged eyes scanned a horizon holding the ghosts of arguments, daring something to provide a target. Only the cold steel replied in its modest silence, and so he felt free to move again.


 
 

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.

It was almost like a hike. A simple pleasure: how his boots sounded in the empty halls. Their heartbeat rhythm spoke loud against the groaning, aching hull of the Station around him. They argued back and forth as he moved, and its sea of voices grew louder each time his hateful hand reached into the bag and pulled out another gift. Bending low with each sendoff, his hand dove down and sent another bomb gliding along its final pathway. Some, he waved to. Others, he saluted. Others still, he laughed at.

His mind was barely registering the places he visited; some corpses weren’t his to claim, but he’d make his mark in a gnashing, hate-filled sense. It had been a good day, all things considered. He didn’t know who the other Agent was, nor what that screaming pile of meat was, but it wouldn’t matter one bit in a few minutes. If they were here, they wouldn’t be here much longer. This place had grown dull. It had outlived its comedy, and now it had to die.

The timers were being set by feel, now. Not even he knew how long each would take to go off, but he was almost sure he kept upping the dial each time. Besides: if he knew exactly how long he had, it wouldn’t be a chase – it’d just be a sprint. And that was pointless. He’d had that argument with himself before and he won every single time. There was just no reason to fight about it as he rounded the corner and faced his final stretch.

One long straight-shot past Medbay and EVA. If he’d done it right, they’d be triggering in a moment. That wonderful, giddy feeling provided him with another cold-hot breath, making him visibly shiver with delight until he clenched his fists to redirect the feelings. Popping his shoulders and bouncing on his feet, psyching himself up into a frenzy that only the pure rush of death could reveal.

BOOM...  BOOM...  BOOM…

“HEEERE WWEEEE GOOOO!” came his detestable sing-song shout, its harmony laced with the acid building within his throat and its pitch dipping into the tar of his soul. Esophageal misery rose up to shake the foundations of his melody, warping its tune into a tragedy of rasp and abrasion. Without requesting it, he felt his body running. His legs were moving faster than he told them to, like his body knew something the mind didn’t.

“Run,” it kept demanding, “Run and run and run. Before it gets you.”

Somewhere behind him, there was a wheezing cough from something long-since and about-to-be dead. Something that yearned for its chance to devour one final meal before expiring. A creature made of metal bones and electronic organs, seeking out the hateful mutt that had dared to walk its halls and steal its breath. But it wouldn’t find him in time. It couldn’t.

KA-THUD.  BOOM.  BUH-BOOM.

BOOM!

Hideous laughter spilled from aching lungs as fear was snuffed out, thoughts of self-preservation   giving way to pure mania. There used to be a person here, but they weren’t in the driver’s seat anymore. What was left was just instinct poured into a tangible form: a man racing against the death he’d orchestrated. Too slow, too weak, too twitchy, and the line of bombs would wrap around the station and blow him to pieces. The only option was to do, or you die. There was no greater high in the universe, and he had tried them all.

Dipping past the doorway and ignoring the inferno now lighting his path from beside and behind, the feral creature found its final joke. Claws slammed down and around the final parting gift. A fury born of joy crushed it in his hateful grip, activating the timer and beginning its death march towards oblivion. Forty-five seconds of existence until nothingness, and counting down faster with each breath. Heavy footfalls matched the reverberating explosions hounding his steps. Whipping around like the body of a scorned viper, his arm shot out as its jaws. Released from his grip: a bomb. Its target: the plasma canister nestled comfortably between two other pods.

There was no time to admire it on-foot. He’d been a bit too slow on the sprint, and the red-hot rage of the Station he’d murdered was trying to clamp down around him like the jaws of a ravenous and rabid beast. His laughter escalated into a full-blown shouting match of ecstasy as he clambered into his Industrial pod and kicked the engines into gear.

“C’MON C’MON C’MON!“ he howled out, willing the death trap to spring to life and deliver him unto victory while he bounced in his seat.

Hammering the “access hangar” button while his pod scraped against the reinforced plating, he threw the throttle forward as soon as the mouth pried opened. The sheer force knocked the wind from his chest and slammed him against his seat with an expression locked into deciding between a wince of pain and a malicious smirk. Gleefully disabling the auto-brake system, he allowed his pod to be gently ushered from certain death by the violent explosion pouring from the Podbay.

Some time later, long after the cocktail of stimulants mixed with adrenaline have worn off..

His ribs had begun to hurt from all the merriment. It may have also had something to do with the shrapnel lodged within and him being out of shape, but he wasn’t a doctor. The only medicine he knew was the best kind, so he went searching for his latest fix of laughter. Wiping the tears from his eyes and ignoring the spinning view out his window, he leaned over with a pain groan and fished out his PDA.

 
“HEY LT”  – HYENA
 
“What? And it’s Latrotoxin, or Tox if that word is too big for you. I keep telling you to quit with the fucking nicknames. It’s really starting to piss me off.”   – LT
 
“lmao. you want 2 see something wild???”  – HYENA
 
“Hyena. If this is another picture of a ‘really big lunchroom’ or some other inane bullshit, I swear that you’re getting a surprise lobotomy in your sleep.”  – LT
 
“NO THIS ONE SUCKED NO SNACKS LMFAO”  – HYENA
“check feed 6 for a recording and try not to fall in love”  – HYENA
 
“God. You are SUCH an idiot. I cannot believe I still answer these. This had better be worth it. For your sake.”  – LT
“Are you running from your OWN BOMBS? Are you an actual moron? Don’t answer that, it’s rhetorical. And no, you cannot eat a rhetorical question.”  – LT
 
“dont be jealous just cuz I CAN run” – HYENA