Meryl Stryfe: Watchful Creed ANIMATION
The crimson sands of Gunsmoke whispered secrets on the wind, a mournful tune that played across the cracked earth and skeletal remains of long-dead settlements. Meryl Stryfe, her duster a familiar shield against the biting grit, adjusted the scope of her rifle. The town of Oasis End was a misnomer of the highest order; a collection of sun-bleached adobe husks huddled around a brackish well, its silence more profound than any scream. She was here on a tip, a garbled message from an informant about a "voice that steals souls." Vague, certainly, but in her line of work with the Bernardelli Insurance Society, the vague often led to the catastrophic.
A flicker of movement in the skeletal remains of what might have once been a saloon drew her eye. Meryl hunkered down behind a petrified sand dune, her heart a steady, practiced drum against her ribs. The figure that emerged was wrong. It moved with a disjointed grace, a puppet on unseen strings, its form vaguely humanoid but stretched, elongated in the shimmering heat. It was the creature from the reports, the one they called the ‘Choral.’
As she watched, a voice drifted from the creature’s direction, a voice that sent a shiver down her spine despite the oppressive heat. It was the voice of her long-lost partner, Milly Thompson, sweet and guileless. “Meryl? Is that you? I’ve been so worried.”
Meryl’s breath caught in her throat. She knew Milly was leagues away, safe, yet the sound was so perfect, so heartbreakingly real. “Show yourself,” she called out, her own voice tight.
The creature stepped further into the open, and Meryl’s stomach churned. Its skin was the color of bleached bone, and it had no discernible face, just a smooth, ovoid head. But as it ‘spoke,’ a ripple, like heat haze, emanated from where a mouth should be. “Don’t be like that, Meryl. It’s me.” The voice was a perfect imitation of her own, laced with a seductive, almost hypnotic cadence. “We can finally be together. No more running. No more Vash.”
A cold dread, sharp and familiar, pierced through the shock. The creature was a mimic, a predator that used sound as its lure. But this was more than just mimicry; it was a violation. It was taking her memories, her deepest desires, and twisting them into weapons.
“You’re not me,” Meryl stated, her voice regaining its steel. She sighted the creature, her finger hovering over the trigger.
“Aren’t I?” the voice, her voice, purred. “I am the you that craves peace. The you that is tired of the chase, of the endless cycle of destruction that follows that man.” It took a step closer, its movements unnervingly fluid. “I can give you that peace. A world without the Humanoid Typhoon. A world where you are not just a footnote in his chaotic story.”
The words struck a chord deep within her, a discordant note of truth she rarely allowed herself to acknowledge. The exhaustion was real, a constant companion on the dusty trails of Gunsmoke. The desire for a life less… explosive, was a quiet ember she often tried to extinguish.
“What are you?” Meryl demanded, forcing the unsettling thoughts away.
The creature tilted its featureless head. “I am what you want me to be.” And then, the voice changed again, this time to that of Nicholas D. Wolfwood, the itinerant priest with a cross heavy with more than just faith. His voice was a low, sardonic drawl that had so often grated on her nerves and, to her eternal frustration, sometimes soothed them. “Still carrying the weight of the world on those pretty little shoulders, aren’t ya, girlie? Some things never change.”
Meryl flinched. The casual intimacy of the nickname, the weary amusement in his tone—it was all so perfectly him. “Wolfwood is… gone.” The words tasted like ash in her mouth.
“Is he?” the creature’s Wolfwood-voice crooned, a chillingly accurate imitation of his cynical laugh echoing through the deserted town. “Or is he right here, telling you to put down the gun and listen for once? You’re always so quick to shoot, so slow to understand.”
It was a masterfully cruel seduction, a psychological assault designed to disarm and dismantle. The creature was not just mimicking voices; it was weaving a tapestry of her past, her regrets, her unspoken longings. It was a predator of the heart.
“And what do you want me to understand?” Meryl asked, her grip on the rifle unwavering.
“That you are more than just a shadow,” the creature replied,
…(more at https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai).
For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)
