[ Time doesn't stand still, though they might. The beast's head moves, giving a signal it doesn't rely on scent, doesn't seem capable of relying on sight; if it did use either of these senses, its head wouldn't be moving as it does slowly, searching, yet never looking the pair directly on. Time and what comes with it has perhaps made those eyes useless, and a nose -- it has no nose.
It has no ears either, but something drew it to them so swiftly, and allowed it to copy Robby's voice so distinctly.
Robby, however, may be considering none of these points.
His eyes are back on the beast, not catching the other's signal, and -- he's breathing. He's remembering. Being like this before, on one side of a beast, another on the other. A darkness, the putrid stench of blood and sickness unavoidable, cycling through his lungs and body. And it rises like vomit inside him, the stench and memory, a scene witnessed: 2B with her body half-consumed by a leeching beast that stuck to her like tar, tearing at her outer skin, leaving her showing her metal skeleton underneath; the pain that tore into him in his hands, the man bleeding out at the backs, dying, the man dying, the man dying, dying.
The rage isn't his own, yet it is. His eyes flare open as his face twists, and he's grabbing for a weapon under his shirt, the lightest ruffle as it slips out of its holder and its in his hand, and both Robby and the beast react. It turning its head and body to him, Robby running at it, a lacking grey arm and its hooked claws already out and swing as Robby swings what he holds - an axe - at its face.
The claw make contact with Robby's face before the axe reaches it, a sharp tear into the side of his cheek that knocks his head, but Robby still gets the blade of the axe buried into the side of its shoulder. One of them flinches to the pain when it should be both; but Robby is screaming despite what's more than the flesh wound to the side of his face, letting the axe stick where it is while he punches a fist at where one of its button eyes are, to make it stumble back at the contact.
Yet it's a stumble that isn't enough to stop it from grabbing Robby by the shoulder, claws digging in. His shirt sure soon to be stained with blood, but he doesn't act like he notices it as more than a nuisance keeping him in place, which isn't stopping him from twisting into it, striking a foot into the side of its knee, making it buckle and drag him with it.
He's scrambling for the axe, his other hand coming to the side of the beast's face, finding that eye earlier punched, pressing to dig in, to burst. But the beast is struggling to push him back, a fight for balance that Robby can't let happen, and they fall onto their sides, the claws pushing deeper into his arm, into muscle, close to bone. Tilting him downward, where the monster could get him to roll over, pin him, any other participants in this forest unknown or forgotten.
Robby's gotten the axe out, and incapable of giving it a full swing, he holds the handle like that of a knife and brings down the sharp steel onto its head. Breaking into skin, breaking into muscle; and the beast is using its free claw to do the same to Robby's back, clawing at him to get him to stop, but he won't.
He's just smashing it down, his face red with fury, with blood, cursing out when his teeth aren't gritted: ]
Fuck you! Fuck-- you! Fuck you! Die!
[ The wailing of the wind through the trees has never sounded so much like screaming, a company to the raging grief that won't make Robby stop. ]
cw: eye injuries, wounds, all that fun jazz
It has no ears either, but something drew it to them so swiftly, and allowed it to copy Robby's voice so distinctly.
Robby, however, may be considering none of these points.
His eyes are back on the beast, not catching the other's signal, and -- he's breathing. He's remembering. Being like this before, on one side of a beast, another on the other. A darkness, the putrid stench of blood and sickness unavoidable, cycling through his lungs and body. And it rises like vomit inside him, the stench and memory, a scene witnessed: 2B with her body half-consumed by a leeching beast that stuck to her like tar, tearing at her outer skin, leaving her showing her metal skeleton underneath; the pain that tore into him in his hands, the man bleeding out at the backs, dying, the man dying, the man dying, dying.
The rage isn't his own, yet it is. His eyes flare open as his face twists, and he's grabbing for a weapon under his shirt, the lightest ruffle as it slips out of its holder and its in his hand, and both Robby and the beast react. It turning its head and body to him, Robby running at it, a lacking grey arm and its hooked claws already out and swing as Robby swings what he holds - an axe - at its face.
The claw make contact with Robby's face before the axe reaches it, a sharp tear into the side of his cheek that knocks his head, but Robby still gets the blade of the axe buried into the side of its shoulder. One of them flinches to the pain when it should be both; but Robby is screaming despite what's more than the flesh wound to the side of his face, letting the axe stick where it is while he punches a fist at where one of its button eyes are, to make it stumble back at the contact.
Yet it's a stumble that isn't enough to stop it from grabbing Robby by the shoulder, claws digging in. His shirt sure soon to be stained with blood, but he doesn't act like he notices it as more than a nuisance keeping him in place, which isn't stopping him from twisting into it, striking a foot into the side of its knee, making it buckle and drag him with it.
He's scrambling for the axe, his other hand coming to the side of the beast's face, finding that eye earlier punched, pressing to dig in, to burst. But the beast is struggling to push him back, a fight for balance that Robby can't let happen, and they fall onto their sides, the claws pushing deeper into his arm, into muscle, close to bone. Tilting him downward, where the monster could get him to roll over, pin him, any other participants in this forest unknown or forgotten.
Robby's gotten the axe out, and incapable of giving it a full swing, he holds the handle like that of a knife and brings down the sharp steel onto its head. Breaking into skin, breaking into muscle; and the beast is using its free claw to do the same to Robby's back, clawing at him to get him to stop, but he won't.
He's just smashing it down, his face red with fury, with blood, cursing out when his teeth aren't gritted: ]
Fuck you! Fuck-- you! Fuck you! Die!
[ The wailing of the wind through the trees has never sounded so much like screaming, a company to the raging grief that won't make Robby stop. ]