John blinked. Thrush, Napoleon, wombats. Nope, didn’t make any more sense the second time around. The best place to start was probably with the yelling, so he said, “Napoleon?” cautiously.
“My partner,” said Kuryakin, pulling something out of his pocket that turned out to be a tiny telescope thing. “He was supposed to be handling the wildlife while I went forward to check on the status of THRUSH’s--oh, dear.”
John was going to get tired of this habit of not finishing important sentences really really soon.
But Kuryakin had carefully set the time machine down and was running in the direction of the yells, pulling a gun. John gave it a nanosecond’s consideration and then took off after him, hoping that no killer wombats got past them and stepped on the time machine while they were gone.
He had his handgun out--his P-90 was back in 2008, of course--and it was very clear very quickly what he needed to be shooting at. A dark-haired guy was pelting towards them, followed by three very, very big…things. Wombats? John had always thought of wombats as vaguely Ewok-ish; he hadn’t thought they were this big. Or that their teeth were that sharp. Or that they could move that fast.
Kuryakin had stopped, and John came up next to him, aiming above the running guy’s head. He fired, going for an eye, and hit; fired again and missed. Jesus, they were huge, and they still had that fucking weird wombat beak thing; the one he’d hit had been smiling around it, creepily human-looking.
Beside him, Kuryakin killed the second one with a neat shot between the eyes, and then the third one was too close and they were running. John fired over his shoulder, didn’t hit anything, fired again and heard an outraged wombat squeal. On his next glance back he saw the last wombat slowing down, getting further away, which was good because they were almost back to where they’d left the—
Kuryakin came to a sudden, tripping stop. John actually crashed into him, sort of; he slowed down enough to keep from knocking anyone over, but there was a second of steadying hands and blond hair in his face and thinking he’s sturdier than he looks. When John finally got his balance back and stepped away from Kuryakin, he was about to ask what was up when he figured it out. This was where they’d left the time machine, and the only thing here was bare red dirt streaked with fresh tire-tracks.
no subject
John blinked. Thrush, Napoleon, wombats. Nope, didn’t make any more sense the second time around. The best place to start was probably with the yelling, so he said, “Napoleon?” cautiously.
“My partner,” said Kuryakin, pulling something out of his pocket that turned out to be a tiny telescope thing. “He was supposed to be handling the wildlife while I went forward to check on the status of THRUSH’s--oh, dear.”
John was going to get tired of this habit of not finishing important sentences really really soon.
But Kuryakin had carefully set the time machine down and was running in the direction of the yells, pulling a gun. John gave it a nanosecond’s consideration and then took off after him, hoping that no killer wombats got past them and stepped on the time machine while they were gone.
He had his handgun out--his P-90 was back in 2008, of course--and it was very clear very quickly what he needed to be shooting at. A dark-haired guy was pelting towards them, followed by three very, very big…things. Wombats? John had always thought of wombats as vaguely Ewok-ish; he hadn’t thought they were this big. Or that their teeth were that sharp. Or that they could move that fast.
Kuryakin had stopped, and John came up next to him, aiming above the running guy’s head. He fired, going for an eye, and hit; fired again and missed. Jesus, they were huge, and they still had that fucking weird wombat beak thing; the one he’d hit had been smiling around it, creepily human-looking.
Beside him, Kuryakin killed the second one with a neat shot between the eyes, and then the third one was too close and they were running. John fired over his shoulder, didn’t hit anything, fired again and heard an outraged wombat squeal. On his next glance back he saw the last wombat slowing down, getting further away, which was good because they were almost back to where they’d left the—
Kuryakin came to a sudden, tripping stop. John actually crashed into him, sort of; he slowed down enough to keep from knocking anyone over, but there was a second of steadying hands and blond hair in his face and thinking he’s sturdier than he looks. When John finally got his balance back and stepped away from Kuryakin, he was about to ask what was up when he figured it out. This was where they’d left the time machine, and the only thing here was bare red dirt streaked with fresh tire-tracks.
“Great,” said John. “That’s just…awesome.”