I Know the Crash is Coming...

[Fic: In the End there is You] [part one]

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 22:00:45 GMT

Dark. Dark windows dark street dark dark dark. Lamps out, glowing fireflies dead and gone, dark dark dark.

Flash. Office. Dim light, squiggles on windows. Frosted pain, stained hands pressed against ears. Scream.

Man at door—coldblood, not man. Angry. Yell “Why are you screaming?” Loud. Dumb. Not need to shout. Tell, too, say so.

Stares. “What the fuck do you want?” Knows. Help, yeah? Help. There for, yeah? T’help.

“What am I supposed to help you with?” Snarly, gnarly, nasty. Don’t hafta be. Just want some help, yeah? Just there for help.

“How am I supposed to help you if you keep speaking incoherently?” Frustrated—two. Glares—both, frowny faces go to town downtown down to the problem. Don’t speak—don’t say, don’t, no.

Sigh, let door swing open, step back. Stained hands in pockets—can’t see ‘em there—step through. To chair, flop. Still standing.

“Well?” Demand. “I let you in. So tell me—why do you need my help?”

Detective, yeah? Investigate.

“Private investigator, actually. But yes, investigate. Is there something you want me to look into, or are you just going around bothering people?”

Not bother, need help. Not here if not need help, yeah?

“You keep saying you need help but you’re not telling me what kind of help you need.” Standing again. Pace. Hands in pockets, hands still in pockets.

Murder, see? Murder, on the run but NOT murderer. Not. Kill, maybe, still kill but not. Not coldbloods, not this’un. Not this’un.

Freeze. Hands in pockets, ball into fists. Shrink—not gonna get hit. Back against the door, don’t move either, both.

“You killed someone?” Growly, not nasty but scored, low flow fulla fists.

Not this’un. Not this’un.

“You killed someone?” Not this’un, not this’un promise. Hands out of pockets, fingers unfurled an’ red, red red red not white. Cover up easy, one quick slice an’ BLACK, not red not white black ‘n blue an’ blood.

“You killed someone.” No question, not any more. Not this’un. Not this’un. Understand, yeah? Gotta clear, innocent innocent innocent. “You said you wouldn’t kill—that was the deal, the angels wouldn’t kill you if you didn’t kill.”

Broke a deal, but woulda broke either way. Easier, see? Just gotta stay innocent, didn’t kill this’un. Didn’t. Promise. Promise.

“And clearly promises mean so much to you.” Snark now, face away, hand toward phone. Call, call everyone, call lights call coldblood call dead. Hand—sticky, red not white—on doorknob. Last plea. Word old an’ cobwebby, deep deep inside, bouncing around.

Please.

Hand freeze, no words. Door open, back out, bleeding knees shake.

Please.

Down dark, into street, cold and white even if can’t see. Light still on. Listen for lights, sirens—none. Getaway. Leave.

Back for help, maybe. Back an’ help next time. Can do, can get through. First, gotta get away.

Muse: Scout
Word count: 473 words
Prompt: Scout and Robin star in a noir-influenced buddy movie.- for weareshadows

[Fic] Inside of Me Turning Out Wrong

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 01:26:01 GMT

Scout stares at the white walls, spotless, pristine. She's shaking, and a grin crosses her face.

"Three. Two. One." She charges at the wall, full speed, throwing herself at it only to bounce off and fall backwards with a yelp that turns into a cackle.

She hates the walls. She's always hated the walls, forever and ever, since they tried to tie her up, since they tried to shock her. Hating the walls. Hating was supposed to be bad. Hating people--couldn't hate people, nope, no, not a bitty bit bit. Hate walls--destroy walls, ruin walls. That she can do. So with a laugh, she springs to her feet and charges again.

It's not like she can actually feel the blood vessels bursting under her skin, spreading dark blood that will form black bruises on her knees, forearms and forehead. She just knows they're there, and she likes them. Surely, if she's bruising, the wall's bruising too, yeah? That must be how it goes.

On the third rebound, her head strikes the chair and the skin splits open, sending black blood dribbling down her cheek. She lies still for a moment, waiting for the world to stop spinning quite so violently, and then she rises, touching the wound on her head gingerly, then grinning as her fingers come away black.

She'll make that wall bleed.

Out comes the knife, and it doesn't even hurt as she slices her palms open then closes her hands into fists, gathering her artillery. She strikes like a bullet, pounding the wall with open palms, spreading the blood as far as she can reach, creating her masterpiece. The giggle rises into a hysterical cackle that turns to shrieks as hands grab her from behind.

No. The wall was bleeding, she was extracting her revenge, she was nowhere near done. She still had the wrists to go for, she still had the jugular. She turned on the hand, a vicious rage rising as she felt where they held far too tightly. She screamed as she hit, dying to be let go.

It took a drop to the floor to knock some sense back into her--not much, but as much as she would have on any given day. She lay there, stunned, the bones in her ankles jarred as the pain in her hands lit like someone had just plugged her nerves back in. She whimpered and rolled over, her body aching. And then she cried out, all pain of her own totally forgotten.

It was Mattie, her Mattie, the bruises already forming under the black blood from her fists, the swelling around his eyes indicative of where she had hit the hardest. Scout crawled over and held his head in her hands.

"Mattie," she whispered. She shook him--just a little, shake him awake, shake him alive. "Mattie."

He groaned under her touch, and she practically dropped him before beaming as his eyes flickered open.

He looked prettier with his swollen eyes open anyway.

Muse: Scout
Word count: 476 words
Prompt: I hate slick and pretty things. I prefer mistakes and accidents. Which is why I like things like cuts and bruises - they’re like little flowers--From sighofthings

[Public]

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 23:46:48 GMT

[OOC: The following is written in very very messy handwriting, and in large letters.]

LOST:

DUMB

--COLDBLUD
--DUMB

FOUND, COLDBLUD PLASE

SCOUT