“pipe the fuck down, asshole” for the prompt list ;)
(oh my gOd im gonna scream bless you both)
this is a potential excerpt from Catastrophe And The Cure; it may or may not change or be removed altogether when i actually move on to writing full chapters ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
“I hate these things,” Lance grumbles, pressing his back to the wall. He feels a particularly loose brick scratch against the nape of his neck, and he turns to shoot an annoyed glare at Keith. “I mean, could they ever just, I don’t know, go to sleep or something? It couldn’t kill them anymore than the infection already has, anyway.”
“Pipe the fuck down, asshole,” Keith shoots back at him from his position against the other side of the window, gripping a glass bottle by the neck. His voice barely reaches above a whisper, and Lance has to study the motions of his lips to make out his exact phrasing.
Lance’s features crease into a frown as he pushes himself off the wall to peer into the open window above him. “There’s three of them in this room,” he states, ignoring the familiar churn of his stomach at the sight of the infected beings. Their movements are aimless and sluggish, their hissing and clicking method of echolocation never quite living up to that of the real thing. They stagger into bookshelves and doorways, muttering their complaints in a foreign tongue, and Lance finds it hard to remember that these creatures were, once upon a time, as human as himself. He shudders.
Keith breaks him out of his reverie with a swing of his arm. The bottle sails through the window and collides with the ground on the other side of the room, sending the trio of clickers into a screaming mob. They all charge toward the sound of shattered glass, and Keith’s fingers are gripping the windowsill within seconds. “Let’s go,” he says as his feet clear the opening and land inside the building.
Lance draws his pistol like it’s second nature, hoisting himself through the window after Keith. He fires at the infected the second his feet are stable on the ground, Keith’s own shots ringing out beside him. The clickers give a few last desperate cries before they collapse to the ground.
Lance tears his eyes away from the bodies; he’d never enjoyed looking at the sight. His gaze lands on the bookshelf in the corner. It’s lined with dust and glass and wood, all remnants of of broken picture frames and memoirs. His heart catches in his throat as his eyes fall on a single unbroken one. The image captured was of a young couple, two small children chasing each other around their legs. The four of them were smiling, sunlight illuminating their faces and capturing a moment forever lost to time. Lance felt pain prick behind his eyelids.
“Lance?” Keith calls his name from the doorway, concealed concern painted within his tone. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Lance surprises himself at the thickness of his tone, and he clears his throat. “It’s…it’s nothing.” His eyes linger on the photograph for a few seconds longer before turning back to Keith. He steps over the bodies without looking at them, and he wonders if the people in the photo ever made it out okay.