[ Peter takes a moment to catch his breath, entire body shaking with the strain, with the panic and rage boiling in his blood.
Brennan. Fucking Brennan. I'll murder him my-fucking-self.
The man beneath him is little more than meat, practically unrecognizable. Green skin and raw hamburger for a face. Peter's fury had blinded him when he saw this guy. Doesn't know why. Just knows that there was hell to pay, and this man had the bill. ]
Found him.
[ This, spoken into his comm, his voice low and dark and wavering with his anger. Someone asks, "Are you sure?" though he doesn't know who. Doesn't really care, either. Except that he snaps back, ]
Positive.
[ There's blood on Peter's hands, on his guns, and he gives them a hasty wipe on the dead man's shirt before he lurches to his feet. A door. A single fucking door keeping him from Brennan. A pad for a hand print. A quick glance at the half dozen men littering the floor. He could drag them over, one by one. Hope one of them has the magic prints. Hope they still have enough residual heat in them to activate the key.
Then he decides, I don't have fucking time for this, and fires off a few bolts of lightning into the mechanism.
It fizzes. Sizzles. Shoots out sparks. And then, because he knows that alone isn't enough to do it (it never works like it does in the movies), Peter fires another dozen shots at the lock itself – fire, this time, over and over and fucking over until the metal is red and heated through.
Guns holstered. Deep breath.
The door slams against the wall as Peter shoulders through it. The red eyes of his mask concealing the way his eyes blaze, daring anyone else to come at him. Nothing. Silence.
Save for a quiet, rattling breath, and Peter's gaze falls on the form in the bed, broken and bruised and— ]
Brennan.
[ This, on a ragged exhale, and he darts forward, holstering his guns. ]
Brennan, you goddamn asshole.
[ This, snarled out, as his hands hover uncertainly. Fuck, he looks terrible. If it weren't for the connection, if it weren't for the fact that this looked like some kind of medbay, Peter would almost think the guy was actually fucking dead. His rage threatens to boil over again, coats his vision in red. Only someone's voice in his ear confirming they've got an exit manages to drag him out of the haze.
He hits the trigger for his mask, leaving a smear of blood on his cheek as it retracts. ]
Wake up, you bastard. [ Anger to mask the fear. An old tactic, but an effective one. ] If you die here, I'll kill you.
no subject
Brennan. Fucking Brennan. I'll murder him my-fucking-self.
The man beneath him is little more than meat, practically unrecognizable. Green skin and raw hamburger for a face. Peter's fury had blinded him when he saw this guy. Doesn't know why. Just knows that there was hell to pay, and this man had the bill. ]
Found him.
[ This, spoken into his comm, his voice low and dark and wavering with his anger. Someone asks, "Are you sure?" though he doesn't know who. Doesn't really care, either. Except that he snaps back, ]
Positive.
[ There's blood on Peter's hands, on his guns, and he gives them a hasty wipe on the dead man's shirt before he lurches to his feet. A door. A single fucking door keeping him from Brennan. A pad for a hand print. A quick glance at the half dozen men littering the floor. He could drag them over, one by one. Hope one of them has the magic prints. Hope they still have enough residual heat in them to activate the key.
Then he decides, I don't have fucking time for this, and fires off a few bolts of lightning into the mechanism.
It fizzes. Sizzles. Shoots out sparks. And then, because he knows that alone isn't enough to do it (it never works like it does in the movies), Peter fires another dozen shots at the lock itself – fire, this time, over and over and fucking over until the metal is red and heated through.
Guns holstered. Deep breath.
The door slams against the wall as Peter shoulders through it. The red eyes of his mask concealing the way his eyes blaze, daring anyone else to come at him. Nothing. Silence.
Save for a quiet, rattling breath, and Peter's gaze falls on the form in the bed, broken and bruised and— ]
Brennan.
[ This, on a ragged exhale, and he darts forward, holstering his guns. ]
Brennan, you goddamn asshole.
[ This, snarled out, as his hands hover uncertainly. Fuck, he looks terrible. If it weren't for the connection, if it weren't for the fact that this looked like some kind of medbay, Peter would almost think the guy was actually fucking dead. His rage threatens to boil over again, coats his vision in red. Only someone's voice in his ear confirming they've got an exit manages to drag him out of the haze.
He hits the trigger for his mask, leaving a smear of blood on his cheek as it retracts. ]
Wake up, you bastard. [ Anger to mask the fear. An old tactic, but an effective one. ] If you die here, I'll kill you.