Ian fanfic
Posted: Fri Nov 03, 2006 3:01 am
Yeap, I'm new here.
I figured I'd start of with this: it's a fic about how Ian got wounded in a caravan raid and how he ended up in Shady Sands. The ending may be a little... uh, abrupt.
Anyway, I'd like to know what you think. Enjoy!
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The blaze of white light make Ian literally flinch, his eyes feeling as if needles were being driven into them from the abrupt switch from pitch black to brighter than daylight. The brahmin that had been trundling along and pulling the caravan stopped in their tracks. Out of the corner of one streaming eye, he could see its massive head shaking, trying to clear its vision, probably. Around him, he could hear the other guards and the drivers cursing- the light became dappled as people threw their arms up to their faces to shield their eyes. One of the brahmin gave a protestive low, ducking it's head and throwing an eldritch shadow onto the people behind it.
When the light had first lit on them, he had unthinking drawn the first weapon that came to hand, a pistol slung by his hip, and raising his own hand to block a section of light from his eyes, he searched the area for the source.
And that was when he realized he might have made an incredibly crucial tactical error. Just as he heard their driver, Sheb, pipe up, he heard the first volley of rifles thunder out across the wind. He watched Sheb's skinny torso fly back, legs flying almost comically staright out while parts of his lungs and bits of his ribs showered the steel behind him- beside Ian, he could hear Aryana screeching at the rest of the guards to quit pumping their penises and return fire.
And just then a round went straight through the shoulder of the arm he had risen to shield his eyes with. It was powerful enough to knock him backwards off the caravan, and he landed with a skull-jarring thud on the hard pan. His head had connected hard with the hard earth, and it was a hard choice as to which hurt more, his arm or his chest. But then again, he was still trying to get his lungs to remember how to function.
The light still poured in like some merciless pariah, the rifles and carbines giving way to pistol SMG fire. He could hear, person by person, the rest of the guard outfit falling silent, while their ambushers voices gradually became audible over their gunfire.
Finally, it went completely still. He could hear people coming from the rock ledge they had been second from passing under, pebbles and small rocks falling from underfoot. After one last spasm, he gulped in a huge draught of air, and snarling something incomprehensible even to himself, rolled onto his bad shoulder to reach his fallen pistol.
Or, he would have, if someone's booted foot didn't pinion his arm to the ground with a stomp that actually cracked a bone. Despite himself, Ian drew in a wash of air that almost became a scream.
"Let's not have any of that, cowboy." The bodiless voice floated from somewhere above him- maybe from the person pinning his arm, maybe from another looter.
Ian wasn't having any of it, regardless. "Sonuvabitch!" He spat at them, flailing a leg and managing to catch one passerby in the calf- they promptly howled and scudded beyond his range.
Though the act of lashing out lowered his battle lust some small measure, another person's boot kicking him squarely in the jaw bathed him in another wave of pain that stilled him. As if he were listening to them from in a tunnel, he heard someone say, "Nasty little bastard." Someone else, probably the one Ian had managed to lay the kick on, sunk a solid blow into his ribs. It knocked a cry from his parched throat, and his vision swam uncomfortably- he gave a few dry heaves before he sank into a gray state between unconsciousness and conciousness.
He could still hear them crashing through the merchandise, tossing things around, booted feet stomping around, shouting at one another. He could still even see- the light filtering in and around the caravans and people, the occasional flash of a body part as someone worked around his inert body. He could see a star- it was almost obscenely bright, through the wash of light.
And then, absence. Stillness. No sounds, no people, no heat, no light. The wind pushed at his body, and he tasted grit in his mouth. His body was inordinately warm and cold- the blood had pooled around his shoulders and head, and it was cooling, congealing. Again, his vision swam and doubled, and he felt himself relax a degree, like his body was giving up.
Fuck you, body. You do what I tell you.
Probably not.
He didn't remember much of the night, just a scattered recollection of sensations. Something crawling over his 'good' hand (that being the one with only his wrist fractured), and the wind keened against him, knocking gravel and weeds against him. The taste of dirt in his mouth, the dryness of his eyes and nose.
Shock, I'm in shock, holy shit-
And then more footsteps. Lighter, wearing shoes, and not boots. It was dawn. The wind had a touch of heat to it- a vague sense of panic that didn't last very long touched the survivor's nerve in him. The idea of frying alive in the desert didn't seem appealing, but it only half occured to him. The idea that the footsteps were from another bad person was also sublimated.
It was as if his body had simply said, Here I am, motherfucker. Come and get me.
Someone's high, railing voice pattered onto the early morning air. "Holy shit!" Or at least that's what Ian thought he heard- it was entirely possible he was reciting the Lord's Prayer or some such bullshit.
Soon, there were a lot more voice and footsteps, and Ian was far beyond even trying to think. He was just tipping over the verge of oblivion when he felt someone's fingers on his neck, and a metal rim touched to his mouth that smelled intimately of water.
He rewoke to a searing pain in his left shoulder that sent long tendrils of a rotten feel down his arm, a dull ache in his right wrist, a headache that felt as if his skull was partially caved in, and the sensation that breathing was getting more and more difficult. He sputtered, and then coughed- it was a dry sound that only tore at his throat. Add dehydration to the list, it seemed.
Someone's hand was placed on his forehead, and then another taste of water was slipped into his mouth. After attempting to gorge himself on it, the water was taken hastily away, someone dimly saying he'd kill himself if he drank too much too fast. It sounded like a male- a matter-of-fact male. It was too dark to tell who this person was, or anything at all, for that matter.
"Where am I?" It seemed a logical question. After being (assumedly) in the middle of nowhere, it was a bit of a surprise at having been rescued.
"In a village called Shady Sands, in my house."
"Whu? Shady? Who're you?"
"The doctor. Razlo."
"Raz-?"
"It's alright. Keep quiet, you're only working yourself up."
Ian swallowed, letting his head fall back again. He gathered the smallest scent of wet soil before his senses fuzzed from exhaustion. Again, he took one step back into the blackness that waited.
Healing was a bitch. Apparently, he was lucky to be alive. That was a shocker- though he kept his biting sarcasm to himself, still bitter about fate pulling one over on him. Or, as Sheb liked to say, "Having been cored hard by the big fuck."
Well. It wasn't like Sheb was going to say much anymore. They hadn't found much left of him or the rest of the crew- their bodies had been picked clean by scavenging animals and the desert.
The bullet that had pierced his armor had gone cleanly through the muscle between his collar bone and sternum, exiting through the tiny space betweeb his shoulder blade and collarbone. That, anyway, had been good news- at least in that he wasn't going to start having heart attacks from a nicked artery. He had two broken ribs, three of them cracked, and his right wrist was indeed fractured. And he had a mild concussion that kept sneaking up on him and throwring him off balance and occasionally making him throw up. That wasn't exactly pleasant, when half the town watched your battered body expel the contents of it's stomach. What wonderful publicity.
Already he had become something of a local enigma- to these people, he was mysterious and exotic. The mayor's daughter wouldn't stop popping up and asking him question when all he could do was stare lumpishly and hope that he could catch at least a third of the words she was saying, when he was having trouble remembering his name at times.
He was lying down in the guard house, where he had a blanket donated to him, on the floor, fending off the dogs when Tandi swung around the corner, peerong in. Glacing past the arm he had thrown over his eyes, he noticed her. "Tandi."
"Hi, Ian." She was still uncertain about how far his goodwill would extend, and her voice had the quality of a begging dog who was cringing because it was expecting a kick.
But it wasn't like he was doing anything. The pain was keeping him from sleeping, since the town didn't have anything that would numb the pain aside for their meager supply of StimPaks. Of which he wasn't going deplete, at any rate. So Tandi being there was welcome- at least she didn't pretend that she wasn't blatantly engaged by him. "What can I do for ya, darlin?"
The affectionate suffix drew a blush from her, and she wandered in, her movements still a caricature of a woman's. She didn't have the hip swing, yet, and she kept her hands clasped before her. "Ohh, I dunno. I just wanted to see if you were up to talk." She had a remarkably expressive voice, he had noticed a while ago, and now she had brightened to the equivalent of a small nuclear detonation.
Super.
"Well, I'm not doing anything." He dragged himself, one handed, into a sitting position, where he noted with some disgruntled distaste that his legs were shorter than Tandi's when she joined him on the floor. The disgust gave way into humor- he had long since stopped being dismayed at his own height. He had the build to discourage people from commenting too much anyway, considering he had once floored a man twice his size with one punch, with a room full of spectators. He had gained a healthy amount of respect after that.
"Soooo. What places have you been to?" Tandi bounced slightly while she spoke, an indicator that she wasn't a very calm person.
Ian let his head rest against the cool adobe, as he considered his answer. After all, being in Shady Sands wasn't the worst thing he could think of.
I figured I'd start of with this: it's a fic about how Ian got wounded in a caravan raid and how he ended up in Shady Sands. The ending may be a little... uh, abrupt.
Anyway, I'd like to know what you think. Enjoy!
____________________
The blaze of white light make Ian literally flinch, his eyes feeling as if needles were being driven into them from the abrupt switch from pitch black to brighter than daylight. The brahmin that had been trundling along and pulling the caravan stopped in their tracks. Out of the corner of one streaming eye, he could see its massive head shaking, trying to clear its vision, probably. Around him, he could hear the other guards and the drivers cursing- the light became dappled as people threw their arms up to their faces to shield their eyes. One of the brahmin gave a protestive low, ducking it's head and throwing an eldritch shadow onto the people behind it.
When the light had first lit on them, he had unthinking drawn the first weapon that came to hand, a pistol slung by his hip, and raising his own hand to block a section of light from his eyes, he searched the area for the source.
And that was when he realized he might have made an incredibly crucial tactical error. Just as he heard their driver, Sheb, pipe up, he heard the first volley of rifles thunder out across the wind. He watched Sheb's skinny torso fly back, legs flying almost comically staright out while parts of his lungs and bits of his ribs showered the steel behind him- beside Ian, he could hear Aryana screeching at the rest of the guards to quit pumping their penises and return fire.
And just then a round went straight through the shoulder of the arm he had risen to shield his eyes with. It was powerful enough to knock him backwards off the caravan, and he landed with a skull-jarring thud on the hard pan. His head had connected hard with the hard earth, and it was a hard choice as to which hurt more, his arm or his chest. But then again, he was still trying to get his lungs to remember how to function.
The light still poured in like some merciless pariah, the rifles and carbines giving way to pistol SMG fire. He could hear, person by person, the rest of the guard outfit falling silent, while their ambushers voices gradually became audible over their gunfire.
Finally, it went completely still. He could hear people coming from the rock ledge they had been second from passing under, pebbles and small rocks falling from underfoot. After one last spasm, he gulped in a huge draught of air, and snarling something incomprehensible even to himself, rolled onto his bad shoulder to reach his fallen pistol.
Or, he would have, if someone's booted foot didn't pinion his arm to the ground with a stomp that actually cracked a bone. Despite himself, Ian drew in a wash of air that almost became a scream.
"Let's not have any of that, cowboy." The bodiless voice floated from somewhere above him- maybe from the person pinning his arm, maybe from another looter.
Ian wasn't having any of it, regardless. "Sonuvabitch!" He spat at them, flailing a leg and managing to catch one passerby in the calf- they promptly howled and scudded beyond his range.
Though the act of lashing out lowered his battle lust some small measure, another person's boot kicking him squarely in the jaw bathed him in another wave of pain that stilled him. As if he were listening to them from in a tunnel, he heard someone say, "Nasty little bastard." Someone else, probably the one Ian had managed to lay the kick on, sunk a solid blow into his ribs. It knocked a cry from his parched throat, and his vision swam uncomfortably- he gave a few dry heaves before he sank into a gray state between unconsciousness and conciousness.
He could still hear them crashing through the merchandise, tossing things around, booted feet stomping around, shouting at one another. He could still even see- the light filtering in and around the caravans and people, the occasional flash of a body part as someone worked around his inert body. He could see a star- it was almost obscenely bright, through the wash of light.
And then, absence. Stillness. No sounds, no people, no heat, no light. The wind pushed at his body, and he tasted grit in his mouth. His body was inordinately warm and cold- the blood had pooled around his shoulders and head, and it was cooling, congealing. Again, his vision swam and doubled, and he felt himself relax a degree, like his body was giving up.
Fuck you, body. You do what I tell you.
Probably not.
He didn't remember much of the night, just a scattered recollection of sensations. Something crawling over his 'good' hand (that being the one with only his wrist fractured), and the wind keened against him, knocking gravel and weeds against him. The taste of dirt in his mouth, the dryness of his eyes and nose.
Shock, I'm in shock, holy shit-
And then more footsteps. Lighter, wearing shoes, and not boots. It was dawn. The wind had a touch of heat to it- a vague sense of panic that didn't last very long touched the survivor's nerve in him. The idea of frying alive in the desert didn't seem appealing, but it only half occured to him. The idea that the footsteps were from another bad person was also sublimated.
It was as if his body had simply said, Here I am, motherfucker. Come and get me.
Someone's high, railing voice pattered onto the early morning air. "Holy shit!" Or at least that's what Ian thought he heard- it was entirely possible he was reciting the Lord's Prayer or some such bullshit.
Soon, there were a lot more voice and footsteps, and Ian was far beyond even trying to think. He was just tipping over the verge of oblivion when he felt someone's fingers on his neck, and a metal rim touched to his mouth that smelled intimately of water.
He rewoke to a searing pain in his left shoulder that sent long tendrils of a rotten feel down his arm, a dull ache in his right wrist, a headache that felt as if his skull was partially caved in, and the sensation that breathing was getting more and more difficult. He sputtered, and then coughed- it was a dry sound that only tore at his throat. Add dehydration to the list, it seemed.
Someone's hand was placed on his forehead, and then another taste of water was slipped into his mouth. After attempting to gorge himself on it, the water was taken hastily away, someone dimly saying he'd kill himself if he drank too much too fast. It sounded like a male- a matter-of-fact male. It was too dark to tell who this person was, or anything at all, for that matter.
"Where am I?" It seemed a logical question. After being (assumedly) in the middle of nowhere, it was a bit of a surprise at having been rescued.
"In a village called Shady Sands, in my house."
"Whu? Shady? Who're you?"
"The doctor. Razlo."
"Raz-?"
"It's alright. Keep quiet, you're only working yourself up."
Ian swallowed, letting his head fall back again. He gathered the smallest scent of wet soil before his senses fuzzed from exhaustion. Again, he took one step back into the blackness that waited.
Healing was a bitch. Apparently, he was lucky to be alive. That was a shocker- though he kept his biting sarcasm to himself, still bitter about fate pulling one over on him. Or, as Sheb liked to say, "Having been cored hard by the big fuck."
Well. It wasn't like Sheb was going to say much anymore. They hadn't found much left of him or the rest of the crew- their bodies had been picked clean by scavenging animals and the desert.
The bullet that had pierced his armor had gone cleanly through the muscle between his collar bone and sternum, exiting through the tiny space betweeb his shoulder blade and collarbone. That, anyway, had been good news- at least in that he wasn't going to start having heart attacks from a nicked artery. He had two broken ribs, three of them cracked, and his right wrist was indeed fractured. And he had a mild concussion that kept sneaking up on him and throwring him off balance and occasionally making him throw up. That wasn't exactly pleasant, when half the town watched your battered body expel the contents of it's stomach. What wonderful publicity.
Already he had become something of a local enigma- to these people, he was mysterious and exotic. The mayor's daughter wouldn't stop popping up and asking him question when all he could do was stare lumpishly and hope that he could catch at least a third of the words she was saying, when he was having trouble remembering his name at times.
He was lying down in the guard house, where he had a blanket donated to him, on the floor, fending off the dogs when Tandi swung around the corner, peerong in. Glacing past the arm he had thrown over his eyes, he noticed her. "Tandi."
"Hi, Ian." She was still uncertain about how far his goodwill would extend, and her voice had the quality of a begging dog who was cringing because it was expecting a kick.
But it wasn't like he was doing anything. The pain was keeping him from sleeping, since the town didn't have anything that would numb the pain aside for their meager supply of StimPaks. Of which he wasn't going deplete, at any rate. So Tandi being there was welcome- at least she didn't pretend that she wasn't blatantly engaged by him. "What can I do for ya, darlin?"
The affectionate suffix drew a blush from her, and she wandered in, her movements still a caricature of a woman's. She didn't have the hip swing, yet, and she kept her hands clasped before her. "Ohh, I dunno. I just wanted to see if you were up to talk." She had a remarkably expressive voice, he had noticed a while ago, and now she had brightened to the equivalent of a small nuclear detonation.
Super.
"Well, I'm not doing anything." He dragged himself, one handed, into a sitting position, where he noted with some disgruntled distaste that his legs were shorter than Tandi's when she joined him on the floor. The disgust gave way into humor- he had long since stopped being dismayed at his own height. He had the build to discourage people from commenting too much anyway, considering he had once floored a man twice his size with one punch, with a room full of spectators. He had gained a healthy amount of respect after that.
"Soooo. What places have you been to?" Tandi bounced slightly while she spoke, an indicator that she wasn't a very calm person.
Ian let his head rest against the cool adobe, as he considered his answer. After all, being in Shady Sands wasn't the worst thing he could think of.