666 | Miles & Bass (Devil's Carnival AU)
The noise was what he became aware of first, the voices, far away and at a distance; the smoke was next, drifting into his face, into his nose, so that he woke up coughing. Hands shoving through loose gravel, Miles shoved himself upright with a rattling cough that had him spitting out what tasted like grave dirt and had to be concrete dust, his head spinning. He hacked, trying to breathe and get a good look at his surroundings at the same time, one eye cracked open as he peered out into the dark.
Alone. Not a soul in sight.
Well, hell. Exhaling around a suddenly raw throat, Miles pushed himself up to his knees then managed to get his feet under him. He didn't notice his gun belt and holsters were gone until he brushed both hands down to slap the grit off his uniform, but it was enough to bring him to an abrupt halt.
Out of the corner of his eye, something glinted in the meager light—but when he turned what he found was not his collection of Glocks and Berettas, but a sword. And a folded envelope with his name on it.
"We’re gonna have to ration. Or start using swords. We’ll be like pirates!"
"Real cute, Bass." It was muttered through grit teeth as he stooped to grab the sword—sword-belt, he realized—and inspect it with an arched brow before he rolled his eyes with agonized patience and strapped it on. Bass' sense of humor was going off the deep end—
And then realization sank in.
"—Bass?" Miles turned again, scanning the dark horizon and the pitted shadows between mountains of rubble, but there was nothing. At least, no one in sight. But there was still sound—voices, from afar. Miles cocked his head, listened, tried to pin-point it, but his gaze landed on the envelope again and he scooped it up too, tearing it open to get at the glossy rectangle of a gaudily printed thing inside.
The letters swam in front of his eyes, but the fact that it was a ticket was obvious enough. Arching an eyebrow, Miles shoved the ticket and the envelope into his pocket and readjusted the sword belt as he eyed the not-too-distant—he could have sworn it was further away a minute ago—collection of multicolored glows that had to be the Carnival.
We don't have time for this shit. There's something we're supposed to be—
Whatever it was, it didn't stop Miles from putting one foot in front of the other, or from grumbling about the rhythmic slap of the sword against the side of his thigh as he headed for the Carnival.
By the time the gates loomed up in front of him, complete with an oversized ticket booth and a half-assed crowd in standing around like a scattered mob, Miles had forgotten again what it was he—they—were supposed to be doing. Instead, he found himself searching, looking for one face in a sea of them. Just one.
Bass.