Author: shattered petal PM
She is not the person, the woman, the Huntress. She is the mission.Rated: Fiction T - English - Horror - Samus A. - Words: 911 - Reviews: 6 - Favs: 7 - Published: 11-03-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8670308
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Title: Insubordinate Weapon
It was the first scent she smelt. A scent she shouldn't be able to smell. The only way the smell would reach her was if it was she who bled. To her horror, this was so. Not long after, the woman felt the blood trickle down her chest, and pool at her pelvis. Soon the scent became too much, too strong and she pulled the helmet off.
Throwing it carelessly aside, Samus dropped to her knees, holding her breath. Opening her eyes, she realised her vision was fuzzy. This wasn't good. Sight was necessary to survive. Whilst her hearing was perfect, sight was just as vital. The woman would not survive if she couldn't see properly.
However it wasn't her lack of vision which caught most of her attention. It was the pain.
For decades, Samus suffered agony, until she was immune. They tagged her as a "freak", incapable of feeling emotions or sensations of any sort. They were aware she wasn't human entirely, but, sometimes, they regarded Samus as a complete alien. Never did the Bounty Hunter care about others' opinions of her. She arrived, did her job efficiently, then left. Nothing more was required.
So when Samus actually felt pain, when her nerves alerted her that something was wrong, when somehow her mind managed to divert her attention to pain, Samus grew anxious. Anxiety. An emotion. The wall was beginning to crumble somehow. Bright, blue eyes turned to the pain and her heart stopped.
The woman's arm cannon lay sprawled nearby, almost in pieces. A weapon which seemed unbeatable was now unusable; useless. Of course Samus wasn't a fool, and she didn't even need to look to realise the consequences of her arm cannon being blown off.
If she still had an arm, she couldn't feel it.
Yet when Samus watched the red liquid create a natatorium beside her, she clenched her left fist. Her other arm was gone. Destroyed with her weapon. Inhaling sharply, the woman knew she needed to stand and flee. Flee. Flee from the scene before it was too late, like a coward, so unlike herself. The battle was over, she won, but, in the end, fell to the ground with the enemy.
Ridley showed no mercy this time. As always, neither did she. Heroes were always victorious, but Samus wasn't a heroine.
Any attempt to scramble to her feet sounded horrifying. So she remained kneeling, eyes closed, allowing the agony to settle. But it never did. The blood continued to pour, soak the ground. The flesh on her right cheek was almost completely torn off. She was a disappointing sight. A time the woman would never feel proud admitting to.
That is, if she would survive.
How could it be? After so many years, was this finally it? A human would laugh, believe it impossible, not her. However humour, fear, sadness, anger–– she felt nothing. It was then Samus realised she should feel something. Raising her gaze, her heart continued to beat, pump the blood. Strenuously, her body attempted to keep this creature alive.
"What are you?"
Only one man asked her such a brave, but ugly question. Samus was always quiet, and it wasn't a surprise when she refused an answer. However what he asked, the way he said it would never leave her. Because, despite everything, she didn't quite know herself.
She was a woman who worked alone. Who was a little odd, and very hard to communicate with. Yet she cared and she was extremely reliable. She did her job well–– she was the best, no one would disagree. But there was also something sad about her. This loneliness. Most thought she didn't realise she was lonely, whereas others believed she did, she just didn't admit to it.
A Bounty Hunter was lonely, though. And there was always a reason why someone would choose such an unusual career, if it could even be called that.
Company wasn't necessary, though. In truth, Samus preferred to not involve herself in conversation. Involving oneself was dangerous. It led to attachment, or peril which wasn't needed for the job.
Ironically, this was what almost killed her.
Strength. Samus' strength was unbeatable. Her pride never lost. Right now, even as she was on her knees, enduring the pain, she still felt proud.
The job wasn't finished yet.
Finally, Samus struggled to her feet. Her head was pounding, heart racing, limbs aching. Then was gone. Suddenly, she felt nothing. Then she walked, her suit, her mask, her armour, vanishing from her form. Free at last, Samus could finally breathe, but she was a terrifying picture. The wounds would remain as scars, as reminders, as haunting memories.
Oh, she had a lot of those.
It was an arduous journey back to the ship. Slow, but not painful. The blood began to slow, however it was too much. A human wouldn't have managed. But Samus wasn't exactly human, anyway.
When she reached her ship, the woman fell in her seat and remained motionless. It was a mistake to sit down. For she could not move. All energy had been zapped out of her form, and her unique blood was soon too little. There was just one last thing to do––
The report was sent: Mission Accomplished.
The job was done