09-14-2009, 07:46 PM
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@$%&In a cosmic sort of sense, it was downright laughable that he'd responded to his daughter's departure as poorly as he had responded to her arrival. The irony was lost on Anselm. His mind was blank, only filled with an array of wailing sirens and flashing red lights. The door hadn't wanted to open, and even after all of these years, a back-up generator remained dedicated to its task. Nnnt, nnnt, nnnt!!! The sound was growing deafening, and he rummaged through the boxes in the small storage room like a madman. Several were filled with gas masks, devices that he could not understand the purpose of, and he flung them to the floor with a backwards swing of his hand. They clattered against the concrete, but the sound was all but mute compared to the ever-persistent alarms. Finally, he found something that grabbed his attention. Warning labels, not unlike the one's he'd found in a book when he first discovered the symbols that would become his tattoos--explosive.
@$%&The hybrid yanked the small box, tucked it under his arm, and grabbed two canisters of gasoline in each hand before hauling out of there. Even as he moved further and further from the old warehouse, he could still hear the blasted ringing in his ears. After a little while, it was hard to say whether he still heard the alarms from their original source or if it was all in his head. Placing the canisters on the ground, he glared angrily around the old air port. A military plane loomed in front of him, as did an old fuelling truck. Last time he had focused his negativity inward and it hadn't gotten him anywhere but hundreds of miles from home. Right now, (he thought) he was at least a few dozen miles from anybody who might care, and he was going to let all hell break loose. There would be no inner turmoil or madness this time, thanks--he was projecting it outward.
@$%&He ducked behind a concrete barrier and sat with the box in his lap. He skimmed the instructions briefly and studied the small, rock-like object in his hand. The tattooed male was almost sceptical--how could a rock be explosive? But hell, why not? Yanking the small metal pin from the top, he hucked it like a hot coal in the direction of the fuel truck and ducked down for cover. Even though it should have been obvious (his hands were over his ears), there seemed to be an unnatural silence for three split seconds before he heard the loudest sound he'd ever heard in his life. Even though he was the instigator, he still found himself starting slightly in his seat, eyes wide as the ground rumbled around him. The explosion was louder than the greatest thunderclap--worlds ahead of the most cacophonous crashing waterfalls. Was it safe? He was just about to turn around when a secondary explosion tore through the once quiet airport, and now there was... there was a lot of light. He stood, jaw agape, as the mushroom cloud of fire rose up from the old fuel truck. And all at once, he was no longer angry or sad, but his mind was still spinning. All was quiet now, save for the crackle of fire and the damn siren still whining somewhere in the background, but all he could hear was a faint ringing sound in his ears.
» p - Brooklyn! Halifax Airport. Don't worry, even though he's ... not happy, he knows better than to take it out on random people. >_> -Cough.- I had sooo much fun writing this. X: -Pyro.-
@$%&In a cosmic sort of sense, it was downright laughable that he'd responded to his daughter's departure as poorly as he had responded to her arrival. The irony was lost on Anselm. His mind was blank, only filled with an array of wailing sirens and flashing red lights. The door hadn't wanted to open, and even after all of these years, a back-up generator remained dedicated to its task. Nnnt, nnnt, nnnt!!! The sound was growing deafening, and he rummaged through the boxes in the small storage room like a madman. Several were filled with gas masks, devices that he could not understand the purpose of, and he flung them to the floor with a backwards swing of his hand. They clattered against the concrete, but the sound was all but mute compared to the ever-persistent alarms. Finally, he found something that grabbed his attention. Warning labels, not unlike the one's he'd found in a book when he first discovered the symbols that would become his tattoos--explosive.
@$%&The hybrid yanked the small box, tucked it under his arm, and grabbed two canisters of gasoline in each hand before hauling out of there. Even as he moved further and further from the old warehouse, he could still hear the blasted ringing in his ears. After a little while, it was hard to say whether he still heard the alarms from their original source or if it was all in his head. Placing the canisters on the ground, he glared angrily around the old air port. A military plane loomed in front of him, as did an old fuelling truck. Last time he had focused his negativity inward and it hadn't gotten him anywhere but hundreds of miles from home. Right now, (he thought) he was at least a few dozen miles from anybody who might care, and he was going to let all hell break loose. There would be no inner turmoil or madness this time, thanks--he was projecting it outward.
@$%&He ducked behind a concrete barrier and sat with the box in his lap. He skimmed the instructions briefly and studied the small, rock-like object in his hand. The tattooed male was almost sceptical--how could a rock be explosive? But hell, why not? Yanking the small metal pin from the top, he hucked it like a hot coal in the direction of the fuel truck and ducked down for cover. Even though it should have been obvious (his hands were over his ears), there seemed to be an unnatural silence for three split seconds before he heard the loudest sound he'd ever heard in his life. Even though he was the instigator, he still found himself starting slightly in his seat, eyes wide as the ground rumbled around him. The explosion was louder than the greatest thunderclap--worlds ahead of the most cacophonous crashing waterfalls. Was it safe? He was just about to turn around when a secondary explosion tore through the once quiet airport, and now there was... there was a lot of light. He stood, jaw agape, as the mushroom cloud of fire rose up from the old fuel truck. And all at once, he was no longer angry or sad, but his mind was still spinning. All was quiet now, save for the crackle of fire and the damn siren still whining somewhere in the background, but all he could hear was a faint ringing sound in his ears.
» p - Brooklyn! Halifax Airport. Don't worry, even though he's ... not happy, he knows better than to take it out on random people. >_> -Cough.- I had sooo much fun writing this. X: -Pyro.-