attitude | give us back a taste of the way things were before they made the laws

A deathwish is usually made long before it's realized. Before she was ever made Valentine, Faye was the type of girl who chased after dreams and would leap off the edge of a cliff without looking down. Reckless abandon was encouraged by a pair of parents so caring and attentive that she never wanted for anything, parents who cleared the path of brambles and branches for their daughter, never letting her feel so much as a scratch. To the girl who lived a life of safety, danger and risk were intoxicating and quickened the heart in a way that not even love could, forming thoughts that persisted even when memories had long since faded and broken away.

From early on, Faye was made to be a hunter.

It shows now, in the bright red that runs down from her knee and the harsh breathing that barely manages to fill her lungs. Her gun is held still and the aim true, save for the slight rattle of the weapon that comes from hands being raised through sheer willpower alone. All around Faye, their blood painting books dusty from disuse, are the bodies of Splicers. Figures, she's murmured to herself, that they'd all be hiding out behind stacks of books. Figures, that even men who lose their minds are nothing other than cowards.

Her breath is ragged with a slight protest, an unwillingness on Faye's part to let go. She just has one more. One more Splicer, who lopes around with predatory intent, that Faye needs to put down. She can do it. She could do it. But her vision is starting to swim and adrenaline is learning to fade, replaced by fatigue as her heel grinds against tile and startles the creature, inspires a flying rage.

"Shit," she bites out, raising her voice as she stumbles back, firing a couple of shots that barely clip its shoulder. "Dammit, hold still!"

Threaded | Flat

He's not here this time to play savior.

Dean's in Rapture to find his own trouble today, an itch beneath his skin born of too many losses and too little whiskey to cope, looking for a fight and a whole lot of noise. With a weapon strapped to every part of his body, his boots land heavy enough to bounce pebbles off the dank floors of Rapture with every footfall. He sets them towards every noise he hears, finds friendlies more often than not, and greets his fellow islanders with a faint smile on his lips and a quick nod of his head.

He saves the real smiles for the ugly ones.

Dean's fresh from a hell of a fight with a pack of splicers, all of them fast but pretty stupid. Dean figures sheer numbers are the only reason they landed a hit on him at all, but it's with a look that's almost fond that he rubs the rising bruise across his cheekbone.

He's almost had it for the day, wearing down and thinking about returning topside, but a sound in the deep pricks his ears.

Gunfire.

"All right," he grunts, hefting his Glock. "Here we go again." Taking off at a run, Dean follows the sound of battle through the darkness, closer and closer until all at once he bursts into the ruins of an old library, and Dean wastes as much time as he ever does on the books.

In the center of the room, a hulking shape is driving a smaller one towards the wall, and in the echo of the telltale click that follows his entrance, Dean knows that whoever it is? Just ran out of bullets.

"Get down!" he shouts, trusting them to obey when he aims his gun, firing a shot into the middle of the Splicer's back that rattles the books on their shelves.

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