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Entry tags:
fic. kind of.
I've had a pretty terrible couple of weeks. I needed violence, but I'll settle for the promise of it.
Londinium in the hottest of the seasons, which blur into one another at the best of times; in the stifling heat the city rolls over like a bloated corpse and bares its ugliest side to the moons. Her black satin heels are gathering grit, which she takes a mild pleasure in wiping off on the ragged scrap of a political poster displaying two-thirds of Gabriel Tam's face and a smattering of cheap civic conscience.
"Nicolas Rosse," she says, and laughs. "Down here in the dust with us mortals."
He passes his cigarette from one hand to another and she follows the movement of the glowing tip, sharp against the night.
"I'm rediscovering my roots," he says in his soundbite voice.
"Give that here." She takes the cigarette and doesn't bother to watch the way his lips curve like broken glass, like heartbreak, as she inhales; unlike some, she doesn't believe in props. If she carries a gun in the first act -- well. Someone will be dead in the third, or perhaps the second if she's bored, even if it's not her finger on the trigger. So she inhales the smoke, and somewhere in the organic mess that is twisted around her essence, chemical receptors come alive with pleasure and filth and the suppression of appetite.
"Blue Sun's new publicity campaign," she says, in homage to that last. "I like it."
He smiles in clear acknowledgment of the nostalgia she's touching obliquely, behind the words, and inclines his head. But what he says is: "And you? Old tricks?"
Dropping the cigarette and not bothering to extinguish it, she takes his hand and turns it over. Places one finger, tipped with a crimson nail, in the centre of his palm and presses down; she's always had a knack for finding scars. And they've been doing this for long enough that she knows the spectrum of his eyes, like the printers of the early Computer Age, but in reverse -- never greyscale, only brilliant inkjet colour. And she knows the muscles around his shoulderblades that aren't quite explainable by any atlas of human anatomy, and she knows this: the pale imperfection of his right palm. Proof positive that not even the star of the morning can escape the entropic grasp of conflict. It's the only advantage she has on him and she knows it.
"New players," she says.
"Careful. You're becoming predictable."
For that she flips his hand again and rakes her nail across the back of it, but he doesn't flinch, and she narrows her eyes and two streets away a drug deal turns nasty. Headlines in the making; she might not be writing the news any more, but she can still create it.
"Live long enough and prediction is easy," she says, though mostly to herself. Seventeen dead in gang massacre. She'd bet her life on it. Someone's life. Another swipe, deeper, and he pulls his hand away with a violence that never makes contact with her skin. She hisses. "Tease."
Blood soaking into the cuff of his shirt and curling down his fingers, so that when he lifts a hand to flick her cheek he leaves a smear of it behind. Not quite acid, but the burn makes her smile again. "Business, Red."
"And here I thought you missed me."
"Old tricks," he says, and laughs. The air is heavy and drenched with greasy heat and yet a shiver runs across her upper back. "But I'm a little out of practice; I've only done this properly once before. I thought you might like to help."
"Help with what?" Curiosity clawing within her, she steadies herself and looks him in the eye. In her heels they're close to a perfect match, for height, and Lucifer is as beautiful as a cloudless night reflected in the mirrors that scrape the sky, and her hair spills down her back like rusted steel. Two young ancients playing the newest incarnation of the oldest game.
Nicolas Rosse's glass-shard smile darts out like a swift shattering and captures her, holds her utterly still.
"Starting a war," he says.
Londinium in the hottest of the seasons, which blur into one another at the best of times; in the stifling heat the city rolls over like a bloated corpse and bares its ugliest side to the moons. Her black satin heels are gathering grit, which she takes a mild pleasure in wiping off on the ragged scrap of a political poster displaying two-thirds of Gabriel Tam's face and a smattering of cheap civic conscience.
"Nicolas Rosse," she says, and laughs. "Down here in the dust with us mortals."
He passes his cigarette from one hand to another and she follows the movement of the glowing tip, sharp against the night.
"I'm rediscovering my roots," he says in his soundbite voice.
"Give that here." She takes the cigarette and doesn't bother to watch the way his lips curve like broken glass, like heartbreak, as she inhales; unlike some, she doesn't believe in props. If she carries a gun in the first act -- well. Someone will be dead in the third, or perhaps the second if she's bored, even if it's not her finger on the trigger. So she inhales the smoke, and somewhere in the organic mess that is twisted around her essence, chemical receptors come alive with pleasure and filth and the suppression of appetite.
"Blue Sun's new publicity campaign," she says, in homage to that last. "I like it."
He smiles in clear acknowledgment of the nostalgia she's touching obliquely, behind the words, and inclines his head. But what he says is: "And you? Old tricks?"
Dropping the cigarette and not bothering to extinguish it, she takes his hand and turns it over. Places one finger, tipped with a crimson nail, in the centre of his palm and presses down; she's always had a knack for finding scars. And they've been doing this for long enough that she knows the spectrum of his eyes, like the printers of the early Computer Age, but in reverse -- never greyscale, only brilliant inkjet colour. And she knows the muscles around his shoulderblades that aren't quite explainable by any atlas of human anatomy, and she knows this: the pale imperfection of his right palm. Proof positive that not even the star of the morning can escape the entropic grasp of conflict. It's the only advantage she has on him and she knows it.
"New players," she says.
"Careful. You're becoming predictable."
For that she flips his hand again and rakes her nail across the back of it, but he doesn't flinch, and she narrows her eyes and two streets away a drug deal turns nasty. Headlines in the making; she might not be writing the news any more, but she can still create it.
"Live long enough and prediction is easy," she says, though mostly to herself. Seventeen dead in gang massacre. She'd bet her life on it. Someone's life. Another swipe, deeper, and he pulls his hand away with a violence that never makes contact with her skin. She hisses. "Tease."
Blood soaking into the cuff of his shirt and curling down his fingers, so that when he lifts a hand to flick her cheek he leaves a smear of it behind. Not quite acid, but the burn makes her smile again. "Business, Red."
"And here I thought you missed me."
"Old tricks," he says, and laughs. The air is heavy and drenched with greasy heat and yet a shiver runs across her upper back. "But I'm a little out of practice; I've only done this properly once before. I thought you might like to help."
"Help with what?" Curiosity clawing within her, she steadies herself and looks him in the eye. In her heels they're close to a perfect match, for height, and Lucifer is as beautiful as a cloudless night reflected in the mirrors that scrape the sky, and her hair spills down her back like rusted steel. Two young ancients playing the newest incarnation of the oldest game.
Nicolas Rosse's glass-shard smile darts out like a swift shattering and captures her, holds her utterly still.
"Starting a war," he says.
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!!!!!
*dashes over, fast as lightning, and camps out nearby to wait for more*
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This was a delight to wake up to, in the "define interesting" kind of way. :D
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*sits next to Aspen*
I don't want your life to be terrible. But damn. There must be some middle ground!
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You could drabble me Lucifer and Raguel. If you have any free time.
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Of... The Future? Where there's a war on, and stuff? *ponders*
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sooo sexy. (I wish I still had even remotely sexy icons!)
mmmmmm prompt me for something similar and I will drabble for you? :)
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God, you never know how much you've missed something until you see it again. There's a red-head in me trying to claw her way out. She'll probably succeed. You bring out the worst in me. But I love it.
P.S. - She wants more.
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Terrifyingly awesome power games are a go!