#we all laughed at him for looking homeless enough for a nun to think him homeless but just look at him here. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hyrule-kingdom-updates · 3 years

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Neither of them said anything for a long minute. Murky water dripping carelessly into a puddle somewhere.

Asivus looked Astor up and down, taking him in. He then nodded, before kicking his legs back out and resting his arms behind his head, resuming his entertainment of staring at the wall. This time he put on the smile.

“Welp! I was kinda hoping a couple decades imprisonment would do the trick, but execution is fine too, I guess. Swiftness and punctuality and all that.” He let out a fake yawn. “Though you’re wasting your time if you’re looking to give a prayer. I intend to go out without asking the gods for anything.”

“I’m not a priest.” Astor said bluntly.

Siv cocked an eyebrow. “Uh…...n...nun—?”

“What happened to you, Assivus?”

“Ahhhh…And interrogation…” He nodded up and down again. “Then I’ll tell you what I told the other guy—you can goooooooo suck my dick.”

Siv turned to the side, fiddling with something metal in his right pocket, the rattling echoing on the stone floor. He finally pulled out an old flask, shaking it back and for, the sound revealing a little less than a third of alcohol left in the container. He shook it again and looked at the seer.

“Snuck this bad boy in, earlier! I know my way around a pat down or two, heheh…” He took a swig before gesturing towards Astor again. “How ‘bout you, choir man? Got any sorrows to drown?”

“A kind offer, but I actually value my health,” he replied. “You got any other contraband keeping you company, then?”

He tensed, but recovered so quickly Astor nearly thought he imagined it. Asivus then let out a laugh before taking another drink and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand—which despite the grime, was probably the cleanest part of his person.

“So they took the nearest homeless looking pal and sent them down to ask me shit...that’s certainly new.” He studied the seer again. “What? We supposed to bond over our greasy hair? Lack of fashion?” Another beat of silence. “...I’ll admit, it’s working a bit!” He laughed, leaning back against the wall.

Astor sighed silently, before cutting to the chase. “You’re being charged with manslaughter—the rampaging Guardian that destroyed part of the castle. But I know it wasn’t you.” Water dripped in the back end of the cell. “I want you to tell me about the malice.”

One of the cells down the corridor rattled, some Lizalfo shifting in it’s sleep. The echoing metal left a sense of unease in the air.

“Listen…” Assivus’s voice dropped to a dangerously quiet tone. “I’m not looking for a defense attorney, and I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. So you should probably get on your way before you miss your sermon.” He glared at Astor, blue eyes seemingly a shade darker.

“There were timelines where the world ends today, you know.” He stepped closer to the cell bars. “The princess far too weak to awaken her powers, the Calamity having grown just strong enough to erupt around the castle, infecting stone and flesh alike.”

“Well whatareya doing here, then, Mr. Doomsday?” Assivus cocked his head to the side. “If the world’s supposed to end, shouldn’t you be...out there? Maybe holding an ‘End is Nigh’ sign or something?”

“It doesn’t end for us, though. I’ve spent my life studying the endeavours and feats that await this world and the next. We’ve luckily still got a few years before hell starts to walk.” Astor stepped closer again, unwavering to Assivus’ gaze. “I’m merely curious about how your little disturbance—or perhaps, failure of a disturbance—coincides with the Calamity’s potential return.”

“I fucked with some Sheikah Tech. Guardian got funky. Brat nephew saves the day. I get arrested. Don’t remember running into any ancient evils on this little joy ride.”

“You and I both know the official report is made-up bullshit. I imagine your spite is derived from the unfairness of the situation.” He tucked his hair behind his ears. “Guardians can’t be corrupted through mechanical means. They’re forces crafted to take on ancient magical forces, and as such are engrained with magical components. They don’t just break out into violence over a broken gear, much less be purposefully made to go against their ancient purposes.” He scoffed at the smirk on Asivus’ face. “Especially not by some idiot like you.” Asivus placed a hand on his chest, pretending to be offended.

“In addition,” Astor continued, “I imagine your father didn’t have purple and gold slitted eyes. So that trait you occasionally have is certainly suspect.”

Assivus blinked, and the creeping colors in his eyes faded along with his confident smirk. He rubbed his blue eyes and sighed.

“Hey well that’s just rude,” Siv said, playfully. “Maybe I got it from my mom.”

Astor clicked his tongue, before clenching his jaw.

“Welp, you’re certainly a smarter cookie than I gave you credit for, purple man.” Asivus crossed his legs—criss-cross-applesauce—and turned completely too Astor. “But the fact of the matter is, I don’t really care anymore. And I don’t know why you care. Knowing doesn’t change anything for your little predictions, does it?”

The prophet’s face remained unreadable. Siv started scratching his head. “You know I do remember you now...I’ve seen you around. You used to pester the Dick-Rhoam a bunch. Walking around with your little maps and star charts or whatever...yeah, yeah. The weirdo that would tell the rich bastards around here that they were useless. Very bitter insults, I respect it! Suppose some heroes wear robes over capes.”

“It’s not about insults, it’s the truth.” Astor narrowed his eyes. “I’m trying to help you, but rest assured, we all are doomed to be consumed by the Calamity.”

There was silence between them again, but the slight smile on Siv’s face didn’t fade.

“You know, this whole dark and edgy doomsday act is great and all, don’t get me wrong. But since it’s just us alone here there’s no need to keep up the act. I mean, I’m pretty sure I saw you left that anonymous gift of exotic bird encyclopedias in Larc’s office last year.” Astor’s jaw tightened and Siv winked. “And I know because he claimed he saw me leave it—and I don’t buy books, ever. Might wanna change your wardrobe, you wouldn’t wanna be confused as the homeless orator—”

“The Malice.” The seer cut in. “How’d you get it?”

“Ah, it all started when I was born in Rauru Settlement to Lord Ligero Arist—”

“I mean how did you manifest it?” He articulated. “Everyone has malice, yes. But it takes something else to make it a physical power. Much less enough to infect Sheikah Technology.”

Asivus tapped his chin for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t I just perish in peace? The ol’ axe seems for sharper conversation.”

“Look, I just want...I want to…” Astor shook his head, restarting. “Any information I get is something I can use to make our future demise just slightly more bearable for whatever unlucky generation lives. Don’t you care about that?”

“Nope! Got no kids. Larc and his brats either didn’t care to look at me, or Larc’s too much of a spineless brother to care about me over the rules. Soooo, I’m all for looking out for me, myself, and I, thank you very much.” He tapped his foot against the stone floor. “Plus, I had an ex that used his kids to scam me of 6k rupees in a pocket monster match a while back, so I’m still recovering from that.”

“Can I trade you then? What do you want? If I come back here with a good wine, will your lips loosen?” Astor was already mentally planning who he could buy a bottle from without a paper trail, already expecting Siv to say yes.

Water continued to drip and drip and drip. Asivus sighed.

“...Nah.” Astor raised an eyebrow. “I’m good...you can’t get what I want, anyhow…”

The seer looked at him for a long moment. Siv had gone back to staring into blank space, deep in thought about something that had caused his smirk to fade.

Let’s see...What would a dead man value? He’s got a rough relationship with his family, he’s got no friends, he’s tainted by a crime of his past…

“Are you interested in the past?” The prophet finally asked. “I know stuff about your mother. If the material doesn’t mean much to a dead man, then I’m all for a trade of information.”

Siv’s eyes suddenly shot up, specks of gold appeared in his pupils before disappearing.

“Wh..*What...?*”

“I’ll start. We’ll both trade details bit by bit, alright?” It was his turn to smirk at the look on Asivus’ face.

“I’m a bastard child.”

Asivus scrunched his eyebrows. “The fuck does that have to do with my…” His eyes suddenly widened, his mouth opening and closing. He quickly checked his flask to see how much was left, and took a swig. He stared back at Astor. “Explains a bit but...What the actual fuck.”

“Her name was Serenity. Serenity Lior Astor, from Deya Village. There, I think that’s adequate, yes?” Astor gestured down to him. “Your turn.”

Asivus scratched his chin, before standing. He drank the rest of his flask, before dropping it to the ground. “How’d she die?”

“Your father is Lord Ligero. You know how this game works.”

Siv bit his lip, for a moment, before shrugging. Suddenly, purple started to creep at the edges of his eyes, pupils thinning to gold.

“OK, magic man. But don’t be a snitch, alright?” Assivus raised one of his hands open in the air, and for a moment, Astor wondered if he was supposed to take it in a weird sideways handshake.

Then, the air swirled, a sensation of mixed euphoria and misery tainting the corridor. Cell occupants were rustling.

A glow of magenta swirled up Assivus’ forearm, before swirling in an orb hovering over his palm. The sound of it forming was like the thick, suffocating scream of hot metal as a smith plunges it into water.

The malice left as quick as it came, and hovering in Assivus’ palm was a strange, and beautiful astrolabe. It’s alluring faint glow nearly made him reach out between the bars to touch it.

“Your turn.”

#Digging In and Sinking #Assivus Hartell #???#hku spoilers

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gay-for-paulson · 4 years

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“Well, No One Told Me About Her...”-- Vikki Hiller x Original Character

~~Hello there! Long time no see! So, I wrote this fic about the great Vikki Hiller a few months ago and forgot to post it! Vikki is my babe, she’s a star, I love her to pieces. And we all know what a power lesbian she is. I actually plan on writing a sequel to this story, so keep your eyes open!!

Enjoy, lovelies! <3

P.S. Shout out to @grilledcheeseandguavajelly for reading through this for me a bajillion times, for always being there to boost my confidence in my writing, and for consistently reminding me to actually post my stories ;)

Warnings: Gay Panic™ lol but for real, I don’t think anything in this warrants a warning, but let me know if you feel otherwise!

Word Count: 7,327

“Well, what a surprise! Catcher’s late, once again!” Vikki announced, tossing her gloves onto the table next to her chardonnay.

Barbara jumped in, “I wonder what it could be this time. I mean, how many stray poodles could that man possibly need to help in three days?”

“Now, now. I-I’m sure he just got held up in traffic, I mean you know what the bridge is like at this time of night,” Peter said, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.

“Peter, he doesn’t need to cross the bridge to get to this restaurant.” Vikki pulled a compact mirror from her her purse and reapplied her lipstick.

“Well, still,” Peter muttered softly, “The bridge can get very busy…”

The maitre’d walked over to their table with a telephone in hand, “Excuse me, Miss Novak?”

“Oh, look! Right on time!” Barbara exclaimed, as Peter let out a sigh of exasperation and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Oh no, no!” Vikki interrupted, slamming her compact shut and reaching for the telephone, “I’ll talk to him this time. I refuse to let this man make a fool out of you or me any longer!”

Vikki picked up the receiver and sat back in her seat, “This is Vikki Hiller.”

Catcher Block’s voice came through the telephone over the slow swinging of a jazzy tune, “Ah! Miss Hiller! Listen, the darnedest thing happened to me today-“

“Let me guess,” Vikki crossed her legs curtly and twisted the telephone cord around her index finger, “You needed to help a blind orphan read a book? Youuuu ran into a group of homeless nuns? Oh, I know! You singlehandedly saved a group of school children from a burning building, what a hero!”

“Your words, Miss Hiller, not mine.”

“Mr. Block, let’s cut to the chase. What is your location?”

“Well, now, why would you want to know a silly thing like that?” Catcher laughed.

“Because, I am running out of patience. Miss Novak and myself have been floundering about, waiting for you to show up for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past three days. Now, I can’t speak for Miss Novak, but I, personally, am getting awfully cross.”

“And I’ll bet you look adorable when you’re cross.“

“I want an address.”

Catcher sighed, “1552 Park Street.”

“1552 Park Street,” Vicki repeated. Peters’ eyes widened as she continued, “I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

Vikki hung up the telephone and stood up, pulling her gloves back on, “Barbara, you enjoy your dinner, I’m going uptown to meet with the rat.”

“Oh, Vikki, you really don’t have to go to all this trouble.”

“Nonsense!” Vikki pulled on her large coat, “You’re my client and you’re my friend. I promised you a meeting with Catcher Block, so a meeting with Catcher Block is what you’ll get!"

Peter stood up from his seat, haphazardly gathering his things, “Uh-uhhm, perhaps- perhaps I should join you!”

“Peter MacMannus, you sit!”

Peter sat, and Vikki grabbed her purse and stormed out of the restaurant.

~~~~~~~~

Vikki’s cab turned the corner onto Park Street and she was brimming with rage, just waiting to give this Catcher Block a piece of her mind.

The cab driver pulled up in front of her destination, “That’ll be $3.25.”

She pulled a five dollar bill out of her purse and handed it to the driver, “Keep the change.”

She got out of the cab and looked up at the blinking neon sign on the brick-front building that read, ‘Sunset Lounge’. She believed she’d overheard some of the other editors talking about this place over coffee during their morning meetings. It wasn’t until Vikki made her way closer to the entrance and noticed some smaller posters that read, ‘DANCING’, ‘GENTLEMEN’S ENTERTAINMENT’, ‘BEAUTIFUL GIRLS’, and ‘TOPLESS HOSTESSES’, that she realized what lurked inside.

“Of course Catcher Block would be wasting my time in a place like this,” she shook her head, “He’s just like every other man.”

Vikki hiked her purse up over her shoulder, puffed up her hair, and marched inside without giving it a second thought.

The door closed behind her and the hallway inside was dark and seedy, the sound of muffled jazz music coming from somewhere she couldn’t see. She walked slowly, trying her best not to touch anything and eventually she came across a pair of glass doors that opened up into a fabulously decorated room, the music now swelling all around her.

Vikki inhaled and took in her surroundings- half naked ladies dancing to a choreographed number on a large ornate stage, topless hostesses serving guests at the bar, a VIP lounge filled with all kinds of people.

Well, this place sure is a gas.

She lit herself a cigarette and scanned the room for Catcher, but when she couldn’t find him, she took to moving about the room. She inched her way through the bustling crowd of tipsy older gentlemen and topless ladies holding trays of drinks, when she was dumped out right by the stage. She looked up and watched the girls dancing around in their teeny, tiny, shiny skirts and their knee high boots. Some girls wore bustiers, others simply wore tassels on their nipples, and Vikki found herself wondering whether or not those things were comfortable.

She realized she had been staring a little too long, but one of the ladies had caught her eye. All of the girls had their hair pulled back into ponytails, except for this one. Her long, dark red, wavy hair was bouncing around as she kicked her long legs high into the air, and-

“Oh!” A large man bumped into her, causing her to drop her cigarette onto the ground.

Her last cigarette.

She exhaled angrily, and shouted in the direction of the man, “Well, thank you very much!”

“Cigarettes?”

Vikki turned around and was met with a topless women holding a tray full of different brands of condoms, cigarettes, and tiny bottles of liquor.

“Oh. Umm,” she murmured as she scanned the tray, just trying to keep her eyes on the tray and the items on top of the tray. The tray. She found her brand, plucked a pack from the bunch, and tipped the hostess, trying incredibly hard not to make eye contact with her breasts.

She didn’t want to be rude.

She pulled a cigarette out of the new pack, lit it, and searched the room once more for Mr. Block. Vikki took a long drag and exhaled a colossal cloud of smoke, “That man had better hope that I don’t find him, because when I do, the next exposé he writes will be about his own funeral.”

She caught a glimpse of the ropes leading to the VIP lounge and figured that he must be hiding there, pompous as he was. So she elbowed her way through the crowd, her cigarette locked between her knuckles. Once she made it to the red velvet ropes, she was confronted by an unenthusiastic bouncer of sorts.

“Name.”

She took a step back, brushed her hands down her dress, and cleared her throat, “Vikki Hiller.”

“Not on the list.”

Vikki’s eyes dropped down to the piece of paper in the man’s hand and then shot back up to meet his eyes, “You didn’t even look at the list.”

“You’re not on the list.”

“Well, how could you possibly know that if you didn’t take the time to check?” Vikki crossed her arms, and took a quick puff of her cigarette.

“You’re a woman.”

“And?”

“Miss, the VIP lounge is for private dances from our female dancers.”

Vikki straightened up and adjusted her coat, “You don’t know what I’m into.”

“Look, lady, you’re not on the list, so why don’t you go back to your book club or whatever and let me do my job, alright?”

“No, you look, buddy!” She pointed her index finger into his chest. “I am trying to find Catcher Block so that I can wring his sorry little neck! Now, is he on the list?”

The man sighed and looked through the names on his form, “I’m sorry, miss, there’s no one on the list with that name,” he turned the sheet around, “Look for yourself.”

Vikki scanned the names on the list and, sure enough, Catcher’s name was nowhere to be found. The crowd erupted into an uproarious round of applause as the stage dancers finished their number. She dragged on her cigarette once more, and blew the smoke up toward the ceiling, eyeing the man, “Well, thank you,” she said sarcastically, “for all of your help.”

She turned on her heels and trudged through the crowd in the opposite direction. This time, when she made her way out of the crowd, she found herself by the bar, and if she was being completely honest, a comfortable seat and a stiff drink sounded amazing right about now.

She dropped herself onto a stool, tossed her purse onto the bar, and asked for a gin and tonic.

While she waited, Vikki spun her seat around so that she was facing the crowd. She started to wonder whether Catcher was really here or if he had just sent her to this place to drive her crazy. She definitely wouldn’t put it past him.

That man. Some nerve he has.

She caught sight of some of the dancers coming from backstage. Some were still in costume but the rest were dressed in regular clothes, so Vikki figured they must have finished their sets for the night. And still, some of the girls were only wearing those tiny skirts and those nipple tassels. Now, Vikki was definitely one to risk comfort for a stylish outfit, but if that were her, she knew she would be just freezing! She wondered if those girls were cold, too. And then there were the ones on the floor that were straight up topless. She really respected those girls. She typically had a good amount of confidence in herself and her body, but if she had to have it on full display like that, at work no less… she simply wouldn’t be able to do it.

Wow, she thought, these girls must be so confident in themselves. So tough. She crossed her legs, and took a drag on her cigarette. Ugh. The men they probably have to deal with night after night. No, thank you.

“Your gin and tonic, miss.”

Vikki spun back around to face the bar. She thanked the waitress, and took a sip of her drink, thankful that it helped to melt away at least some of the tension of the night. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed another woman take the seat next to hers and overheard her order a dry martini.

“Rough night?” The lady asked, leaning her elbow on the bar.

Vikki took another sip of her drink, stamped her cigarette out in the crystal ashtray on the bar, and said, “As rough as one night can get, I think.”

The waitress placed the girl’s martini on the bar, and the girl put the olive between her teeth and pulled it off of the toothpick, “Care to talk about it?”

Vikki thought for a moment. Part of her felt uncomfortable, and a little guilty, unloading her problems onto a complete stranger, but the exhaustion of the night was taking over and she desperately needed some advice. She sighed, “I’m having trouble with a certain… gentleman. If one can even call him a gentleman, that is.” She rubbed at her forehead in an attempt to dissipate her headache, “He told me to meet him here, and-“

“Here??”

“Yes.”

The girl played with the toothpick, stuck it between her teeth, “Well, you’re right, he doesn’t sound like much of a gentleman to me.”

Vikki nodded in agreement, took a large sip of her drink, and tilted her head back. She closed her eyes and allowed the warmth of intoxication to spread throughout her body.

“I mean, he could have at least taken you to the Russian Tea Room or something, but hey, what do I know?” The woman laughed.

Her eyes still closed, Vikki actually started to laugh a little bit, too. “No, no. This wasn’t supposed to be a date or anything of that nature.”

“So, you two aren’t…?”

“Heavens, no!”

“Well, thank goodness for that! I was beginning to worry about the future of mankind for a moment, there!”

“Oh, goodness,” Vikki laughed, “No, he’s a writer, and for Know magazine of all things, so that should already tell you how pompous he is. You see, I’m a senior editor at Banner House, and this man has swindled my client out of a meeting for the past three days. I finally got so fed up that I demanded to know his whereabouts, so that I could give him a piece of my mind in person, and he gave me this address. I’ve been looking for him all night, and either he’s reeeeeally good at hiding,” she finished off her drink,” or he stood me up.”

“That sounds just awful!”

Vikki ordered a second gin and tonic, “Or he simply lied to me, which is also an incredibly real possibility, given his plethora of alibis over the past three days.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what, he sounds like a proper jackass.”

Vikki looked over at the woman, “He is a proper jackass! I’m Vikki Hiller,” she stretched her hand out, “Thank you for listening to me ramble on about my problems, I’m sure this is very uninteresting to you,” she laughed.

The woman shook Vikki’s hand, “No, not at all, I’m… really enjoying getting to know you, Vikki Hiller.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Cashmere.”

Vikki hesitated for a moment, “Huh, that’s… different!”

The woman laughed, “Don’t worry, that’s not my real name. Cashmere is just my stage name.”

“Oh my goodness!” Vikki put a hand over her heart, and laughed. “Not that Cashmere isn’t a pretty name!”

The waitress set Vikki’s second gin and tonic on the bar.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Some of these men can get pretty sleazy, so I like to protect my identity. My real name is Quinn.”

“Mmmm,” Vikki sipped her drink, “Well, if it means anything at all, I think Quinn is a lot prettier than Cashmere,” she smiled.

“Why, thank you, that’s very sweet of you.”

“Stage name… Oh, wait! Aren’t you one of the dancers I saw on stage earlier?”

“That I am, Miss Vikki!”

“I knew your face looked familiar! Your hair was down while you were onstage,” Vikki remarked on Quinn’s hair, now pulled back in a low bun.

“Oh, you’re right,” Quinn reached back and pulled her hair out of it’s bun, letting it fall down past her shoulders, “Some of the other girls can’t dance with their hair down, they say it get’s into their eyes, or it makes them sweaty, blah blah blah…” she laughed and shook her head, letting her hair bounce around, “I think it’s fun!”

Vikki became so distracted by Quinn’s hair, that she almost forgot to speak, “Uhm, well,” she cleared her throat, “You have really gorgeous hair, I must say.”

“Thank you!” Quinn sipped her martini, “I also wasn’t wearing this jacket on stage.”

She flashed it open for a brief moment and Vikki saw that she was one of the dancers wearing the tassels on her nipples, and her eyes went wide for a second before she forced herself to reign it in, “Oh!”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I wasn’t even thinking!”

“Oh, no! It’s not that, it’s just… aren’t you cold? When you’re walking around in just… those?” Vikki leaned in and asked.

Quinn laughed, “It can get a little chilly, yes! But when you’re dancing, it just feels so… freeing. And comfortable!”

“Wow. I don’t think I would ever have the confidence to pull those off,” Vikki crossed her legs.

“Oh, come on! You would look great, I’m sure of it!”

Vikki laughed, and covered her now reddening face. She was enjoying this conversation so much, she almost forgot why she had originally come here. That is until she noticed Catcher Block out of the corner of her eye. He was leaning against a wall, talking to another gentleman and drinking a scotch.

“Oh, lord.” Vikki drawled.

“What is it?”

“Don’t look, but that’s the man I’ve been trying to find all night,” she said in a hushed tone, as if Catcher would be able to hear her from across the room.

Quinn looked anyway.

“I said don’t look!” Vikki laughed, “Oh, see? There. He saw you.” Vikki pulled her compact out of her purse, and reapplied her lipstick. “Well, this should be a fun conversation, that is if he doesn’t try to run away again. Is he still looking over here?”

Quinn checked, “Mhm.”

Vikki snapped her compact shut and put it back in her purse.

“You wanna give him a show?”

“What?” Vikki glanced over at her.

“Y’know… A little something to really get his attention.”

“What do you m-“

Vikki was cut off as Quinn reached over, hands on her cheeks, and planted a giant kiss right smack on her red lips. She was so taken by surprise, that her hands shot back and her fingers splayed open, and she practically froze right there on the spot.

Quinn pulled back and noticed Vikki’s stiff demeanor, “Ah gee, I’m so sorry… was that too much of a show?”

Vikki closed her eyes, her eyebrows raised, “Oh, no! No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Uhhumm, it was- Oh, god he’s coming over here.”

Quinn turned to look, and then turned back to Vikki, “Hey. You’ve got this.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Don’t let him take you for a ride again.”

“No,” Vikki downed her whole gin and tonic.

“You’re the senior editor!”

“I am!” She lit another cigarette.

“Go get ‘em, Vikki Hiller.”

Vikki stood up, took a long, deep drag on her cigarette, blew the smoke out in front of her, and brushed her hands over her dress, making sure it was perfect. She puffed up her hair, and rolled her neck.

As she walked over to Catcher, she took notice of the smug look on his face hidden underneath the thin layer of charm, and she was ready to blow her top.

“Catcher Block.”

“Ah, you must be Miss Hiller! You sound as angry as you did on the phone earlier.”

“Mmmm, yes, earlier, you mean three hours ago?? Where have you been?”

“Well, you see, I was a little busy, Miss Hiller, I-”

“Busy! Ha! Peter, Miss Novak, and I were all busy, too. Busy waiting for you! Busy sitting around when we could have been working. Or having social lives! But no, we were all busy waiting for the phone to ring so that you could tell us whatever harebrained alibi you had come up with that day!”

“Oh, have you not heard my brilliant story about how I had to help an elderly woman with a broken leg cross a busy street?”

“Why, no. I must have missed that one while I was arguing with bouncers, getting knocked over by men twice my size, and trekking around this seedy joint looking for an arrogant, self-indulgent lunatic.” Vikki’s pokes into Catcher’s chest with her index finger. “But don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll catch the next one.”

Catcher started chuckling to himself.

“I’m sorry. Do you think this is funny?”

“Oh, no no. I don’t think this is funny.”

Vikki was losing her patience, “Just what are you laughing at?”

“Well, pardon me if I’m wrong, Miss Hiller, but it sure looked like you were having a good time over at the bar…”

“At the b-“ Vikki stopped in her tracks, almost forgetting the out-of-the-blue kiss that Quinn had planted on her a few moments ago.

“There it is, yes! The kiss! The one deployed in order to 'get my attention’.” Catcher made air quotes with his fingers. “The one that you definitely ‘didn’t enjoy’.”

Vikki thought for a moment. Had Quinn kissed her with intention? And not because Catch was watching? No, no. No, that’s ridiculous. Quinn had to be straight. Vikki wouldn’t necessarily label her as a ‘girly girl’, but she was still pretty feminine. And pretty. She couldn’t be a…homosexual. A lesbian. Weren’t all lesbians supposed to be butch and masculine? Yes, right, and they wear suits, not… tassels… on their nipples…

Vikki shook the thoughts from her head, “Oh, what do you know?”

Catcher let out one more snide chuckle as he eyed Vikki and leaned in close to her ear, “I know an excited woman when I see one…”

Vikki stood stark still and stared straight ahead.

“…And you were one excited woman.”

Catcher stood back up, and Vikki took a long drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke across his face, sarcastically, if that was possible. He patted her on the shoulder, “You think about that one a little bit longer. I’ll meet you and Barbara at the Waldorf Astoria tomorrow for breakfast…” he eyed her once more, “Or maybe lunch, perhaps?”

He walked away and Vikki stood alone, cigarette in hand, lost in her thoughts for a moment or two before eventually shuffling back over to her seat at the bar.

“Hey!” Quinn said, “I ordered you another gin and tonic.”

Vikki eyed the drink and considered downing it all in one gulp, but she wanted to hang on to whatever sobriety she had left.

“Do you have everything sorted out now?”

Vikki pulled her focus from the glass and simply gazed at Quinn for a moment, biting her lip. And then she stopped thinking. No more thinking. No thoughts. She leaned over and grabbed Quinn by her jacket lapels and kissed her, right there. And for longer than she had anticipated.

She sat back down onto her seat and exhaled, before wiping at the corner of her mouth with the tip of her ring finger, “Yes. Yes, I think I do.”

Quinn settled back into her own seat, dazed, “Well. That certainly was…” she trailed off, “What was that all about?”

Vikki tried to put on an air of confidence, however her vulnerability was seeping through slowly.

“You kissed me.”

Quinn looked down at her drink, “I did.” She lightly slid her finger around the rim of the glass. “I apologize if I put you in an uncomfortable position.”

“No, no, it’s- you didn’t. In fact, I think you might have done just the opposite.”

“…The opposite?”

“Quinn, I think you may have… opened me up to a part of myself that I didn’t even know existed.”

Quinn looked more than relieved to hear Vikki say these things, yet it seemed she was still having trouble looking Vikki in the eye. She exhaled, “I’m just glad you’re not upset.”

“I am not upset. I… I don’t really have the words to describe what I’m feeling, but,” she paused, and shook her head, “I really like you, Quinn.”

Quinn looked up, her eyebrows raised. She smiled, “I really like you, too, Vikki Hiller.”

Vikki smiled back and took a sip of her drink. “I must say, this certainly does explain the things I was feeling when I saw you up on that stage,” she laughed, swirling the liquid around in her glass.

“Oh, really?”

“Mhm.”

Vikki caught Quinn staring at her out of the corner of her eye. She slid her now reddening face into her hands, “Stop that!”

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that,” Vikki laughed.

“I can’t help it,” Quinn sipped her drink, “Y’know, I saw you, too, when I was up on stage.”

Vikki peeked her head out from behind the palms of her hands, “You did?”

“I did. The look on your face was… pure wonder. I almost messed up the whole routine because I couldn’t take my eyes off of you,” she chuckled.

Vikki gazed at Quinn.

“And then this big lug bumped into you and made you drop the cigarette you were holding, and the vexation that washed across your face was absolutely priceless, I just knew I had to talk to you.”

“Oh goodness,” Vikki cackled, “did I really look that angry?”

“Yes, but it’s alright because then you bought another pack,” Quinn laughed right along, “Once you pulled out a new one and lit it, all I saw in your eyes was confidence. Strength. Determination.”

“Well…” Vikki grew quiet, “that’s very sweet of you to say.”

“I mean it! You, Vikki Hiller, are a force to be reckoned with.”

Vikki blushed, and took another sip of her drink, and another drag on her cigarette before stamping it out. The two girls sat in comfortable silence for a moment or two, until Vikki turned back to Quinn.

“Y’know,” she said, “I really enjoyed kissing you.”

“I enjoyed kissing you, as well.”

“I think… I think, I’d like to do it again.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, then what are we waiting for?”

“Well, I certainly don’t want to do it more in public! I might be a force to be reckoned with, but I am more reserved about things like this.”

“I’m not talking about here, silly!”

Quinn pulled some cash out of her jacket pocket and left a tip on the bar. Vikki followed suit, pulling a neatly folded ten dollar bill from her purse and placing it on top of her glass. Quinn grabbed her hand and pulled her through the buzzing crowd.

“Wait, where are we going?” Vikki shouted above the music.

“Backstage!”

The music swelled as they made their way closer and closer to the stage in order to reach the door. The girls ducked and weaved themselves around groups of people large and small. Dancing, drinking, networking, and definitely not moving out of the way. Vikki wasn’t afraid to use her elbows, but she made sure to keep a tight grip on Quinn’s hand, afraid of losing her in this mass of people.

After what felt like an eternity of “Hey, watch it!”’s and “S’cuse you, sweetheart!”’s, the two ladies made it to the door and pushed their way through, finally managing to escape the commotion.

Quinn exhaled, triumphantly, “Okay. Made it.”

“Well, wait, aren’t there still going to be people back there?”

“There shouldn’t be, it’s pretty late.” Quinn led Vikki down the long hallway. “Besides, I’m taking you to the dressing room. There might be some dancers lingering around in there, but I assure you they’ll be very cool about it when I ask them to leave.”

“How do you know that?”

“Honestly? Most of the dancers here are queer, and the ones who aren’t are incredibly supportive. They’re like my sisters.”

“Well, that’s really sweet.”

“And plus, they use the dressing room for this kind of thing all the time.”

“Less sweet,” Vikki joked. “It’s interesting that all of these queer women work at a gentleman’s lounge.”

“Well, now, there are a couple of reasons for that. For one thing, this place pays very well,” Quinn laughed, “And the men who come into this place might be scum bags, but at least if we’re dancing for them no one really suspects anything about us.”

“Wow…”

“And we all get to be together! I’ve known some of these women for years from other jobs, gay bars around town, things like that. Y’know, there is a bar downtown that I’d love to bring you to sometime,” Quinn winked.

Vikki tried to hide the blush spreading across her cheeks.

The two approached a large blue door with ‘Lounge Dancers’ printed on it, “Here, we are!”

Quinn opened the door to a room filled with flashy costumes and feather boas, bright lights around mirrors and posters of famous female performers plastered all over the brick walls.

There were three girls chatting on the sofa, when one of them looked over and said, “Oh hey, Quinn! Would you please tell Ginger that we do seven high kicks in this dance and not eight. She keeps messin’ up the timing,” the girl laughed.

“Listen, Kit, when we learned that dance, I swear on my life it was eight counts and eight kicks!”

“Oh yeah,” the third girl spoke up, “and the rest of us just happen to be messing it up at the exact same time in the exact same way.”

Quinn laughed, and closed the door behind Vikki, “Ginger, it’s seven kicks.”

“Told ya.”

Ginger rolled her eyes, and Kit asked, “Who’s the tall dame ya got there, Quinn?”

“Ladies, this is Vikki. Vikki, this is Kit, Ginger, and Pamela.”

“Well, hello there, Vikki,” Pamela purred, and Kit smacked her on the shoulder.

“Soooooo, Vikki and I were hoping to use this room for a little while, if you girls don’t mind…”

Kit stood up from the sofa, “Say no more, we were just about to head out anyway.”

The other girls arose and collected their things, making for the door. Ginger said, “We’re all gonna grab a few drinks at Lottie’s if you wanna meet us there. Vikki can come, too!”

“We’ll see. If I don’t catch up, you ladies have a great time!”

“Goodnight, Quinn!” The girls hollered.

“Goodnight, Vikki,” Pamela winked from the doorway.

Kit tugged on Pamela’s ear, “Whatsa matter with you?”

Quinn closed the door, laughing.

“Your friends seem like a real blast,” Vikki chuckled, placing her purse on top of one of the vanities, and tossing her coat onto the sofa.

“Yeah, they’re definitely an interesting pack of gals,” Quinn placed her hands on Vikki’s waist, pulling her close, “but, um… I don’t wanna talk about them anymore.”

Vikki’s voice hushed, and she glanced down at Quinn’s lips and back up to her eyes, “What do you want to talk about?”

Quinn was now an inch or two from Vikki’s face, and getting closer by the second. She brushed her bottom lip against Vikki’s, and said softly, “I don’t want to talk.”

A fire lit behind Vikki’s eyes and she closed the space between them with a passionate kiss. She threw her arms around Quinn’s neck and pulled her as close as she possibly could. She doesn’t remember ever kissing a man this intensely, or feeling anywhere near the amount of things she’s feeling right now. Sparks. Fireworks.

The two parted, breathing heavily. Quinn looked up at Vikki, “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t just something you’re experimenting with right now that you’re going to regret tomorrow, is it?”

“Quinn, just shut up and kiss me, goddamnit,” Vikki said, breathlessly, and Quinn did just that.

Vikki let her hands wander for the first time. They were exploring so many new places. Touching so many new things. Her hands were laced through Quinn’s hair, tugging, pulling. She’d never experienced anything more sensational than running her hands through the long, luscious hair of a woman. She grabbed Quinn’s ass. Every man she’d ever been with in the past had a backside so flat, you had to use a telescope to find it. Her hand lightly brushed against Quinn’s breast. Men sure as hell didn’t have those.

She slid one of her hands underneath Quinn’s jacket, embracing the bare skin of her stomach, hips, and back as she pulled her even closer, wanting to experience all of her.

Quinn started kissing down Vikki’s neck, “I wanna wrinkle that perfect dress of yours.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmmm.”

“I want you to take it off.”

Quinn looked up at Vikki for a brief moment, and kissed her hard. Rough. She reached around to unzip the dress and Vikki let it fall to the ground as she kicked her shoes off. She was now standing in the dressing room of a gentleman’s lounge wearing nothing but her bra and underwear. Which were matching, of course.

“Wow,” Quinn breathed, “Red lace. You didn’t peg me as the red lace type.” She winked.

“Oh, didn’t I?”

“No. But, my god, am I glad to be proven wrong.”

“Well, if things keep going the way they’re going, you might be able to see me in nothing at all,” Vikki leaned in and kissed Quinn slowly, with purpose. She slid Quinn’s jacket off until it fell to the floor next to her dress. She traced her hands down the other woman’s bare, freckled arms, causing her to shiver. Quinn took off her boots and her skirt, until she was just as bare as Vikki.

Quinn quickly flipped the switch and pushed Vikki up against the door, Vikki gasping as her bare skin met the cold metal. Quinn kissed down Vikki’s neck once more, her hands running over her smooth skin, cupping her breasts, as Vikki’s eyes drifted shut. Quinn reached up and removed Vikki’s hair from its ‘do, and it fell down into a mass of dark waves that now sat just below her shoulders.

“God, you’re gorgeous.”

Quinn kissed down Vikki’s stomach and Vikki leaned her body against the door, her arms stretching up and over her head, as something inside of her pulsed, ached.

“Quinn,” Vikki breathed.

Quinn looked up and into the big, dark eyes gazing down at her. Vikki simply stared, her chest heaving. She didn’t know how to ask, but it turns out she didn’t have to say anything.

Quinn stood up, making understanding eye contact with Vikki, and she leaned in and kissed her softly, her hands on her hips. But her hands slowly moved, now teasing at the hem of Vikki’s underwear. Both of their eyes closed, Quinn broke the kiss and waited a beat, as she leaned her forehead up against Vikki’s. She felt Vikki nod, and she slid her hand down, between her legs.

Vikki exhaled at the touch, at the long-awaited release of tension, while Quinn moved her fingers rhythmically, quickly realizing just how turned on Vikki actually was.

“Oh my god, Quinn,” Vikki hummed.

Quinn kissed along her jawline, down her neck, across her collarbone.

Vicki whispered, “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course you can.”

Vikki bit her lip, “I’ve never… you know… with a man before.”

“You’ve never…”

“…Orgasmed. No. Only by myself, never with another person.”

“Oh, honey,” Quinn kissed Vikki, “I can promise you won’t be saying that after tonight.”

She began moving her fingers expertly once more and Vikki moaned and threw her head back. Quinn was slow and fast. She was rough and soft. She was so many things all at once and Vikki almost didn’t know how to process it. Sometimes her brain would take a brief second to remind her of exactly what she was doing. Something she’d never thought in her entire life she would be doing. But then Quinn would bite her ear, or leave a mark on her neck, and Vikki would tell her brain to zip it, because she was having the time of her life.

“Oh. Quinn. Fuck.”

“That’s it,” Quinn said softly. She could feel Vikki tensing up beneath her. “C’mon, Vikki Hiller. Senior editor at Banner House. Tall, gorgeous, force to be reckoned with.”

Vikki moaned, biting her lip, almost in an effort to stifle it. She was nervous. Once she did this, it would mean that she really… did this. And she was anything but prepared for what she was about to feel.

Vikki had her arms wrapped around Quinn, and she leaned her head on the other woman’s shoulder, “Quinnnn, ohhh. Oh, god!”

Quinn felt Vikki clench up around her fingers and she held her as her body rattled and jolted against her own.

Vikki held on to Quinn as tightly as she could, afraid she was going to fall to the ground because her legs just about gave out. Her vision blurred for a moment and she shook from shivers of aftershock.

“That was…” she breathed, “I can’t…”

Quinn kissed her nose.

Vikki exhaled, smiling, “That was cute…” her smile turned devious, “but I’m no princess, honey.” She pushed Quinn over toward and onto the sofa and straddled her. She leaned down and whispered into her ear, “It’s your turn.”

Vikki moved Quinn’s long hair out of the way and kissed down her neck, leaving little bites and marks, trying to mimic what had been done to her. She felt like she should be more nervous, but she just… wasn’t. She had never made love quite like this with a man. Vikki liked it a bit rougher than the average person, but any time she was with a man, it was about as bland as an unsalted cracker. Now, she realized she was able to really let her true colors shine.

“Jesus, Vikki…” Quinn moaned.

Vikki kissed down Quinn’s chest, stopping at her breasts. She looked up at Quinn, “I wanna take these off.” She flicked one of the tassels covering Quinn’s nipples, and pulled it off. And then the other one. She massaged Quinn’s bare breast and then moved her hand down her stomach, resting her hand right above where Quinn wanted it to be… needed it to be.

She teased Quinn by rubbing overtop her underwear, just light enough to make her squirm.

“Vikki, please. Please…”

Vikki kissed Quinn’s breast and sucked on her nipple, making Quinn moan much louder than she expected her to.

“God,” Vikki said, “You think I’m gorgeous? You should see yourself.”

“Shut up,” Quinn breathed, giggling softly.

Vikki quit teasing and shoved her hand beneath the waistband of Quinn’s underwear and moved her fingers like she would on herself. Slow circles. She could feel Quinn’s arousal, she could feel her chest heaving, could hear her whimpering and whining. She wanted more. She wanted to unravel this woman. She’d never wanted anything like she wanted this.

She sped up and Quinn gasped, clutching the cushion beneath her with a white knuckled fist. Vikki took that as a wonderful sign and kept speeding up, changing rhythms, soft, hard, light, rough.

“Vikki… aahhhh, my god. Please, Vikki.”

Vikki decided to try something that she had done on herself a few times, and she moved her fingers down and pushed two of them inside of Quinn, thrusting hard, still working her clit with her thumb.

Quinn moaned, almost screaming, “Oh, god! Ah-Oh my god! Ohhhhh…”

Quinn’s back arched off the couch and she shook, her legs wrapped around Vikki’s body, squeezing her tight. She covered her face with her hands, muffled moans escaping.

“Vikki…” Quinn said, breathlessly, “Jesus Christ… You are very, very good at that.”

“Why, thank you.”

“You’re sure you’ve never done it with a woman before?” Quinn joked.

“Mmmmm, I’m fairly certain,” Vikki blushed, and adjusted her bra strap.

She got up off of the sofa and sauntered over toward the vanities.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Getting a cigarette,” she shuffled through her purse and she could feel Quinn’s eyes on her. She popped her hip out to the side and heard a small “Mmm…” from across the room. She just adored teasing this woman.

Vikki placed a cigarette between her lips and and lit it. She took a puff and let out a deep exhale, looking into one of the mirrors and playing with her now tangled hair.

“That was just the best time I’ve ever had. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like that, Quinn, I mean it.”

“I hope you don’t think we’re finished…”

Vikki held her cigarette between her fingers, and glanced back over at Quinn, “…Really?”

“Come here.”

Vikki smiled a devilish smile, stamped her cigarette out in the ashtray on the vanity, and sauntered back over to the sofa, kneeling in front of Quinn. The other woman sat up and unclasped Vikki’s bra in one swift motion. She tossed it over with the other clothes on the floor, and said, “Lie back.

Vikki, impressed, raised her eyebrows and did as she was told. Quinn leaned over her and began pulling down her underwear. She spread Vikki’s legs apart and kissed her way up her thighs. The kisses didn’t last long though, as she made her way all the way up, and immediately licked from her entrance to her clit, making sure to linger there a little bit longer.

Vikki hummed in approval, letting out soft moans of pleasure. No man had ever done this for her. Missionary, yes. Most of time, actually. But this? This was definitely a first, and she was so far over the moon, she was dancing with the stars. This exact moment could last forever, if she had anything to say about it.

Quinn used her tongue in ways Vikki certainly never imagined one could. She went a little lighter for a moment and Vikki’s hips jerked reflexively, as she ached for as much contact, as much pressure as she could get.

Quinn dug her nails into Vikki’s slender thighs and scraped just a little bit, causing Vikki to gasp, and tense up. She reached up and massaged Vikki’s breast with her free hand, pinching at her nipple, effectively undoing the woman. Vikki was already incredibly turned on, so it didn’t take any time at all.

“Quinn, fuck. You’re gonna kill me.”

Quinn sped up, she could feel how close Vikki was to breaking.

“Oh, fuck, oh my- Oh my god… Quinn, fuck. Fuck.”

Quinn felt Vikki squeeze her thighs around her. Vikki felt as though she was about to explode, her body quivering, almost unable handle the intensity of what she was feeling. Quinn dipped her tongue inside and that was it. Vikki was gone.

She screamed out Quinn’s name, her hands gripping the other woman’s hair as though it were the only thing tethering her to the earth. She jolted, surged, feeling like her body was struck by 1000 volts. By lightning.

Quinn kept going until Vikki made her stop, and then she crawled up the length of the sofa to lay next to her. She held Vikki as she came down and kissed her, softly. An intimate kiss that lovers share. She brushed the hair out of Vikki’s face and cupped her cheek, and the two just lay there in the silence for a few moments. Soft breaths, the only sounds to be heard.

“You certainly are no princess,” Quinn whispered.

Vikki chuckled, softly, “You’re damn right.”

“Hey, the night’s still young. We can still meet the other girls at Lottie’s, if you’re in the mood.”

“That sounds like a gas, it really does, but… maybe we could just stay here for a while?”

“Maybe we could… go back to my place instead..?”

“I would love that.” Vikki smiled, her tongue between her teeth.

Quinn smiled back and then remembered, “Oh wait, don’t you have that breakfast meeting tomorrow morning?”

Vikki thought about it for a moment, “Mmmm. You know what? I think tomorrow morning I have to bring food to the homeless shelter, and help a child get their cat out of a tree.”

Quinn laughed.

“Well, darn, I guess I’ll just have to phone them and tell them I can’t make it.”

Vikki leaned over and kissed Quinn, then rested her head on her chest. She let her eyes close as Quinn played with her hair, and she melted into the other woman completely.

She lay there, breathing softly, thankful that Quinn had kissed her earlier. Thankful that she decided to take the leap and kiss her back. Hell, she was even thankful to Catcher Block! If he hadn’t put her through the mess that he did, she probably wouldn’t be here right now, completely comfortable with herself for the first time in a long time.

Quinn hugged her tightly and kissed the top of her head, and Vikki found herself looking forward to the rest of the night. Looking forward to tomorrow. Looking forward to forever, wherever it took her.

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awreckfics · 4 years

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Day 1

Okay, my writuary game is slow but I’m getting there. The first prompt was fresh. The characters I drew from my mug were Bossuet and sister Simplice, so here’s the tale.

“Okay, okay, everyone! Let’s calm ourselves!” Grantaire held up his hands until his friends’ cheering subdued. “Now, who wants to start the game?”

The question, of course, prompted another minute or two of intense shouting – he should have seen that one coming, really – but in the end they settled on Enjolras, because he was their leader after all and Grantaire might have influenced them a little when he suggested it rather loudly and enthusiastically bt who was he to say it for sure.

Grantaire’s hands were almost shaking from excitement as he searched the papers for the question, belonging to Enjolras’s chosen number.

“Ha!” he shouted enthusiastically when he had finally found it. “This is a good one. When did our lovely Bossuet first go bald? Give me an age, Apollo!”

“Well” Enjolras looked down at the tea he was holding in his hand, clearly thinking. “I think he lost all of his hair when he was twenty-two. So then?” he looked up at Grantaire expectedly.

“Is that a question?” he asked, pulling up one eyebrow.

“No” Enjolras answered much more certainly this time.

“Hah, you’re wrong!” Grantaire and Joly shouted at the same time.

“Bossuet went bald once, long before” Grantaire nodded seriously. “At the delicate age of fifteen…”

~~~

September 2011

Bossuet was running as fast as he could. At least, he would get a nice warm up before he even arrived, he told himself as he sprinted down the streets, his packed backpack jumping against his back at every step.

He wasn’t a slow runner. With his bad luck, he simply couldn’t be. Just that afternoon his cat had decided to lay down on the floor right where he was about to put his foot, while he was attempting to carry a warm mug of coffee up to his room. So, he ended up having to somehow get his cat to let him wash out the coffee from her fur, which lasted way too long and now he had to run to get this bus and he really, really needed to get this bus.

Right when he was about to reach the last corner, the bus he was supposed to take blew past the street. Without him.

He slowed down, panting. He ran a lot and he ran fast. All for nothing. He let out a long, suffering sigh as he leaned against the nearest fence. Why can’t just one day go well for him? He was about to reach for his phone to text Grantaire that he was going to be late, when a voice from behind him disturbed him.

“Watch out young man, that paint is still fresh.”

“Wha-?” he twirled around to see a nun at the other side of the bright blue fence he was leaning against, holding a bucket of blue paint. Bossuet’s eyes widened as he reached up to touch the back of his head, where he felt something sticky and wet in his hair that made him grimace, expecting the worse. And sure enough, as he pulled his hand back his fingers were stained. Light blue against his dark skin. “Oh, no, no, no, not today!” he muttered as he turned around. “How bad it is?” he asked the woman over his shoulder, clinging to some bizarre idea that maybe the situation wasn’t as bad as he was imagining it.

“I never lie, son. It’s pretty bad” came the answer Bossuet was afraid of.

“No! This can’t be happening. Why today? Can it be washed out?”

“It is a blend made to survive a large variety of weather conditions. I don’t think so” the woman answered, then Bossuet heard keys turning in the little gate at his left and the opening of the hinges. He didn’t turn to see the nun exiting the garden, he stared ahead of him, fighting back his tears.

“Is there somewhere important you need to be right now?” came the gentle question, now from his side.

“Well, I…” the boy started, but he choked up before he could get any further.

“It’s okay, son” the woman placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to keep it in, it will make you feel better.”

“What?” Bossuet asked, forcing his sobs back, though he knew perfectly well what the woman meant. Joly had told him the same, many times.

“The crying” the nun answered none the less.

“I know, I just…” he started before he had to stop to take a few breaths. “Don’t wanna cry on the street.” he finally managed to get out.

“Then come back inside. The bus is not coming for a while and we can see what we should do about your hair.”

“Really?” he looked down at the woman, finally letting the tears to slide down his face.

“Sure, come in!” she smiled.

“So, what is this place?” Bossuet looked around at the tiny corridor, already with a steaming mug of tea, which the nun made for him in an also tiny but pristine kitchen.

“It’s a safe house for homeless people” the nun answered from the little room she had been searching through for a while. “It’s still warm outside, so we don’t have many people in today. It was the perfect way to paint the fence.”

“Just the perfect day” Bossuet murmured under his breath. Just his luck, really.

“Aha, I found it” she rose to her feet after rummaging through some boxes on the ground, holding up a razor. “There are always a few items that get left here. Anyone can take whatever they want from here and…” she paused to look at the item in her hand. “Oh, I see why no one wanted to take this though. It doesn’t seem to change settings, so it can only shave at one length.”

“It’s on zero, isn’t it?” Bossuet asked, surrendering himself to his fate.

“Yes, it is. Do you still want to do it?”

“Well…” Bossuet bit his lips nervously, mentally arguing what would make the better impression, showing up bald or with bright blue paint in back of his hair. “Yeah, yeah, I think it will be better that way.”

“So, what is the big occasion?” the nun asked over the buzzing of the razor against Bossuet’s scalf.

“What?” Bossuet looked up from his phone, distractedly. “Oh, it’s the audition for the basketball team in my high school. You see, I have a really bad luck” he started to explain, since he could imagine the bewildered look that must be on the woman’s face. “I know probably no one else is freaking over about their hair before a basketball team try out, but I was never chosen to go to sport competitions in my elementary school, since all my teachers were familiar with my bad luck. They usually didn’t even let me play, because they were afraid, I would slip and accidentally kill myself, or stuff. But now I’m going to a whole new school and I want to make a good first impression and I can’t do that if it’s radiating off of me that I’m a disaster.”

“And will you be able to make it there in time?”

“My friend just said he will make sure the coach stays there until I arrive” he held up his phone as a proof.

“I see. We are finished” she declared and shut off the razor. “Do you want to look in a mirror?”

“No, I’d rather not” Bossuet grimaced a bit as he got up.

“I can see why” the sister nodded, which was not calming at all, but well, it was too late anyway.

“Now come on, you need to get moving, you have a basketball audition” the sister declared as she quickly swiped together Bossuet’s hair from the ground at placed it in a nearby bin. “I’ll take you with my car. I’m sister Simplice by the way. You shouldn’t sit in a person’s car if you don’t even know their name, even if they happen to be nuns.”

“You could still kidnap me if you wanted to, even though I know your name” Bossuet remarked as he followed Simplice outside to a quite unremarkable, beat up little Citroen.

“You are correct” the sister answered simply, as she got into the driver’s seat.

“I’m Bossuet by the way” he added as he got in after her.

~~~

“Did you get into the basketball team though?” Courfeyrac turned to ask Bossuet after Grantaire had finished telling the over the top tale of how Bossuet lost his hair when he was fifteen.

“Yeah I did. I didn’t manage to convince the coach that I wasn’t a disaster though. I mean I barged in there an hour late, bald” the man in question laughed.

“How did you manage to convince the coach to stay there for that long?” Feuilly turned to Grantaire.

“Well, it wasn’t so much my words that convinced him, rather me climbing up to the top of one of the ropes and refusing to come down until he looked at my friend’s game. See these guns?” he flexed his biceps. “That’s right, I got these for friendship!”

“Wait, wait” Jehan hold up a hand when the laughter Grantaire’s words had caused died down. “How did the haircut look?”

“Terrible” Joly answered with a flat face. “I made him promise never to go bald again.”

“And here you are, nine years later, dating good bald me” Bossuet smiled, showing the top of his head into Joly’s face.

“Makes me wonder which of us really has the universal bad luck” he muttered, pouting until he got a kiss from his boyfriend to make up for his baldness.

first chapter || next chapter

#sister simplice #was inspired by sister Micheal and that lovely woman on queer eye s2e1 #bossuet #Lesgles #Les Miserables #les mis #fanfiction #les miserables fanfiction #awreckattemptstowrite #my writuary mess 0 #writuary #january writing challange

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annachronistic · 5 years

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The Bird That Cannot Change

Éponine felt trapped. She and her family lived a life of poverty and crime, one that the children were forced into. Her father had no love for any of his children at all, seeing them only as pawns in various futile schemes to con people. Éponine was the only one who was not afraid to defy him, probably because she did not care what bad things would happen to her, or even if she lived or died. Yet she wanted out so badly, wishing that somehow things would get better, no matter how it may come to pass.

She was a pathetic thing to look at too: less than a meter and a half tall with an emaciated frame, tattered clothing, and a few missing teeth. That day, she had gotten in a fight with her father where he slammed her head against a wall, causing her to lose yet another tooth. She knew that she was ugly and that there was nothing she could do about it.

But there was one thing that she could do: become a better person on the inside. She was not bad because she wanted to be bad, but because she had to. Because of this, she had an epiphany and felt obligated to make amends with others, one last chance to change and be a good person. And the stolen letter she was carrying with her prompted her to find the first person she needed to apologize to: Cosette.

She saw her later that day headed towards the garden at Parc Monceau. The girl had made a triumphant comeback since the last time Éponine saw her as the unpaid, abused child-worker at the inn. Éponine was nervous, to say the least. It was risky business indeed—the girl may or may not even remember her.

“Cosette, wait up!” Éponine said, running to catch up to her, trying to get her attention. Cosette turned around and saw her waving at her with a piece of paper in her hand.

“Do I know you?” Cosette asked her. This was not looking good so far.

“Um, I am Éponine, the girl that was sent to deliver letters between you and Marius,” Éponine explained, eyes downcast.

“Oh, that is right,” Cosette recalled.

“I am sorry for stealing your letter. I still have it and have not yet given it to Marius.”

“Oh, his lodgings are probably too far away for you to get to,” Cosette said.

“No. I withheld the letter for more...personal reasons,” Éponine admitted.

“You dislike him?” Cosette asked. Éponine shook her head.

“You dislike me?”

“No,” Éponine said.

“You fancied him yourself?”

“Yes. In the past I did, but now I have all but given up. And by ‘the past’, I mean five hours ago. It was the insanely futile odds that made me abandon the idea of ever being with him. It’s about as likely as me wrestling a bear and winning,” Éponine mustered a chuckle.

“It is absolutely ridiculous of me to believe that anyone would love a low-life gamine like me. I was envious of you, someone who is intelligent, beautiful, and kind-hearted. And in a selfish act I stole the letter to intercept it from Marius. I really am truly sorry.”

“That is okay. I forgive you.”

“Thank you so much,” Éponine said. “Now I must apologize to you for other things and be on my way to make amends to other people.”

“Wait,” said Cosette. “Before you do that, I would like to know the context of this. Who are you?”

“A homeless woman in a gang,” Éponine said curtly. “Not by my own choice.”

“Almost every city has a school or a convent where nuns help the poor. Perhaps your parents could move you to a more remote place with lower crime,” Cosette suggested. “Don’t give up so easily. It gets better.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Éponine countered. “I am afraid that nothing can actually be done. Any ways of fixing my life are purely hypothetical”

“Then what, hypothetically, would improve your situation?” Cosette asked.

"My parents actually loving me and my siblings. Freedom from crime. Perhaps even good looks could augment things. If I weren’t so hideous, people would stop taunting me for being ugly. Maybe more people would love me and not judge me. Hell, if I were as pretty as you, everyone'd love me."

“But what does that guarantee?” Cosette asked, confused. "Being pretty is not an accomplishment and adds nothing of substance to who an individual is."

“I would disagree with that,” Éponine countered. “If you are well off enough to take good care of yourself in order to be pretty, then that is an accomplishment!”

“Hm, I never thought of it that way,” Cosette said.

“In this day and age, beauty is a major reason why women are loved. I would go so far as to say that it is almost a prerequisite for being loved. And when Marius treated me slightly better than what I was used to, I mistook that for love. It cannot be love because I am hideous.”

“Please don't call yourself hideous,” Cosette said.

“Okay, I won't,” Éponine said, although she knew she would be lying to herself. “Can you do me a favor, Cosette?” Éponine asked.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I know that this seems counterintuitive, but next time you see Marius, wear something ugly.”

“Wait, what?” Cosette laughed in disbelief.

“I told you it would seem stupid!” Éponine laughed. ��But it’ll prove if he really loves you as a person. If he is disappointed that you aren’t as good-looking, then you should find someone else. Seriously. Love that is conditional on things that don’t last long such as wealth and beauty is a reason why many people get left.”

“That is an interesting social experiment that you propose,” said Cosette. “I’m open to do it, as I believe I am strong enough to handle rejection.”

“Rejection? It’ll be a walk in the park for you. He fell for you so quickly that none of this really matters. Now that I think of it, this is more of a practical joke to pull on Marius than genuine relationship advice.”

“That is brilliant though. I’m still going to do it. I’ll put on my best acting chops, wear something drab, and cover some of my teeth with raisins. I’ll even make up an elaborate story about my papa losing all his money.”

“Splendid,” Éponine said.

“Why don’t you conduct this social experiment yourself, Éponine? You might find someone who loves you for who you are.”

“I seriously doubt that. I have no money, no friends, no hope for the future. I am past the point of no return and this is it for me.” Éponine declared.

“What do you mean ‘this is it’?” Cosette asked, somewhat worried.

“I mean that this is the end. I do not have much time left—I’ll most likely starve to death or get murdered within the next year. I’m trying to stay here as long as possible for Gavroche and Azelma, but the fact is that I am going to die soon.”

There was a long period of awkward silence as Éponine stared into the distance and Cosette looked at the ground. Éponine knew that her life was over, yet she did not cry. Cosette sighed.

“You’re scaring me, Éponine,” Cosette said.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to do that.”

“It just haunts me to see someone give up just like that,” Cosette said.

“But giving up can also be freeing, as if you are giving up a burden that has weighed you down. An uncaged bird is still a free bird, even if it has broken wings,” Éponine said.

“I can somewhat see that,” Cosette nodded.

“You know, one thing that annoyed me about Marius was that he kept on forgetting that I could read,” Éponine smiled and shook her head. “I know it seems trivial, but that hurt me, the assumptions that people make. I am being judged for something that is essentially out of my control. I know that he is a well-intentioned person, but he still looks down on me.”

“Perhaps you could write him an apology letter to show him that you can write,” said Cosette.

“Writing a letter is a good idea indeed, but he’ll think I went to a transcriber. Because that is the way society works. The Brahmin and the untouchable cannot coexist as equal members of society, nor can the untouchable ever become a Brahmin. I cannot hate Marius because of this simple fact of life. It is not his fault. He did not make the rules, he merely follows them. He will not change and neither will I. I had an epiphany that I should make the most out of what little I have left of life instead of wasting time on things that will never change, like this pointless revolution that these students are planning. I had a plan once, I sure did, but it went to shit. A plan to escape almost a decade of destitution and crime. You see, the only way for a woman to be well-off is to have rich parents or to marry someone rich. My father hates me, so the only way for my ‘plan’ to work was by marriage. My siblings would all move in with me and my future husband. We would all live together happily and never see my father again. I had this stupid fantasy about being a hero for my family, and now I’m rambling like a madman to a girl I was supposed to apologize to!”

“Wanting to help your family is not stupid,” said Cosette. “And it is good to get things off your chest sometimes. Why can’t you become a hero and make your dreams come true?”

“Because life ain’t a dream, Cosette. I hate reality, but I will not deny it.”

“You seem bitter,” Cosette said.

“I am bitter. But I’ve no right to complain because I deserve this. Perhaps this is karma for how awfully I treated you,” she said, her voice breaking.

“I do not understand,” Cosette said. “I have never met you in my life.”

“You have. Nine years ago. That inn in Montfermeil where my parents forced you to work and beat you if you didn’t work fast enough, and sometimes for no reason at all. And I would just sit there and laugh and play with the toys my mother gave me. I copied my parents before knowing how awful they truly were. Not once did I try to intervene and help you.”

“That was you?” Cosette’s eyes widened.

“Yes. Me and my sister.”

“I can’t remember you clearly though,” said Cosette. “The only two people I distinctly remember were the fat lady and the toddler. He did not like it there and neither did I. I guess your memory becomes hazy when you force yourself to forget things. I miss my mother.”

Éponine put an arm around Cosette. She remembered her parents’ exchanges with Cosette’s mother and how they continually lied to her. They made it seem that they needed more money than they actually did, fabricating a story about Cosette being ill. Once she died and the money stopped coming, they resented Cosette even more. She did not know exactly what happened to Cosette’s mother, but something told her that her parents had some connection to her death.

“She would sing to me,” said Cosette. “At some point, she would call me by my middle name. Was it Eugenia, Eunice, Euphrasie? My memories of her are good, but few and far between.”

“You will see her again when the time comes,” said Éponine.

“You were right about the world being a cruel place,” Cosette sighed.

“Cosette, you are one of the most resilient people I know. Now I know why you try to stay positive and encourage me to do the same: because things did get better for you,” Éponine realized.

From the outside, it seemed that Cosette was the bourgeoise girl who had it all. The average person would not look at her today without context and think “this person is resilient”. But Éponine knew different.

“You are so very different from when I last saw you,” Éponine said, awestruck. “How did you...” Éponine began.

“How did I what?” Cosette prompted.

“Uh, never mind. It’s not important.”

“I must be on my way now, Cosette. I wish you the best of luck,” Éponine said, walking away. “Be careful. Strive to be happy.”

“You too, Éponine. I guess I will see you again soon then,” said Cosette.

“No, you won’t.”

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tessatechaitea · 4 years

Text

Darkstars #1

Of all the thousands of comic books I own, this is probably the most 90est of them.

I don't remember too much about this comic book but I'm pretty sure the pitch was this: "Imagine Green Lantern but with more police brutality and drawn by one of those Image boys!" Then four guys in suits dropped their pants and began jerking off into their briefcases full of money. Just look at this gorgeous artifact of 90s comicdom! A super hero with a testicle for a head, full of gritty, sketched-in shade lines. His fists don't attach to his arms because that kind of perspective is difficult. Better to have flaring blasts of power or big wrist cuffs on their gloves! His thigh is nearly as thick as his chest. There's a huge fat guy that is just drawn in that Kingpin fat guy Tweedle-Dum style because actually drawing obese people isn't something 90s artists practiced. Although I'm not sure how much they practiced actual anatomy either and that didn't stop them from drawing and inventing all sorts of musculature. Anyway, I'm sure I picked up this issue not because the art blew me away but because it was 1992 and there was a "Sensational 1st Issue!" blurb on the cover. It was an investment! And judging conservatively by the fine price of this comic book at Mile High Comics, I've made more than double my money! This series was written by Michael Jan Friedman whose name first made me think, "Wait. It was written by the Renegade guy?" But that was Michael-Jan Vincent. My next thought was, "Didn't this guy write Babylon 5 too?" But that was J. Michael Straczynski. This is just some guy who wrote a bunch of Star Trek novels. The artist is Larry Stroman whom I didn't recognize by name but judging by this cover, I wasn't surprised to see he worked on X-Factor for awhile. The issue begins with the testicle-headed Darkstar on space patrol trying to pull over some low level criminals. Why were we all so obsessed with stories about space cops? Not that I was! I just bought this for investment purposes! Besides, I've always been critical of the role the Green Lanterns play in the universe. If they were a space EMT force, I would hardly have any problems with them. But when they're portrayed as space cops trying to keep some kind of intergalactic Guardian law, they just seem like a bunch of fascist dicks. Especially when one of the human Green Lanterns uses lethal force simply because the criminal is non-human. I'm pretty sure that's something that happened and I commented on it in a past review and not just a strawman I made up to justify hating on the Green Lantern Corps. Do I really need rational reasons to hate on space cops? I hope not because I'm really getting excited to hate on the Darkstars!

Aha! So he's a disenfranchised Darkstar who's going to need to be reminded why what he does is important. Or maybe he'll just be a gruff asshole to his young new partner I'm sure he'll be getting soon.

Apparently this Darkstar had a case go bad on some planet called Jenuwyne. So now the job has lost its shine and he's not even sure what he does helps in the slightest. It probably doesn't! Who needs any kind of police force that oversees so many different cultures across such vast distances in space?! How do they keep all the laws straight?! You know they occasionally get confused and beat some guy for not signalling and later find out that signalling is a huge insult to that race. I mean, I get the appeal of a pitch for an adventure comic book about space cops. But ultimately, it seems to just expose the fascism behind forcing people to follow arbitrary modes of behavior. At least in the Star Trek universe, the laws are decided by a federation of civilizations that have willingly joined the community. In Green Lantern (and presumably Darkstars though I admit I don't quite remember what kind of space cops they are), the laws have been decided by a group of little blue men who think they know better than everybody else. I'm pretty sure, with the exception of a few of the adjectives, that describes fascism. There are three huge differences between the Darkstars and the Green Lanterns. The Green Lanterns are mostly green while the Darkstars are mostly red. The Green Lanterns use a ring on their fingers and the Darkstars use rings on their entire hands. The Green Lanterns create constructs out of emotional light energy while the Darkstars just blast shit with an orange beam that goes "VEEEEEP!" There might be more differences but I'm only on page 3.

I'm not going to cynically decide, on page 5, that Colus is exactly like Hal Jordan. I mean, Hal Jordan's head doesn't look like a testicle so that's one big difference between them.

Now that Colus has cracked the case of the hijacked medicine, he's being put on the next case: investigate Earth! He probably has to look into the concept of "love" and find out why these humans, with all their emotions, are so special. Meanwhile on Earth, some cop with the head of a typical Chicagoan totally wants to rough up the person he's talking to for information but she's a nun so he's all, "Fuck. Can I get away with that? I can probably get away with it, right? But, I mean, I guess I believe in God and that slim belief is really all that's keeping me from doing whatever the fuck I want. I mean, the law ain't gonna stop me from beating this nun senseless for information. Last I checked, the District Attorney liked the police being cooperative and is smart enough to know that sending a police brutality case to a grand jury would mean a lot of cops are going to suddenly stop helping the District Attorney's win percentage. So I could probably beat this nun but there's that possible God and heaven thing. I guess I just have to let her disrespect me this one time. Just this one fucking time." Then he goes off to intimidate some homeless people because who's going to advocate for them, you know?! I feel like I remember this Chicago-headed Dallas cop becoming a Darkstar. He's investigating the same case as Darkstar Colos: an alien drug called Loco or Loku being sold on Earth. Colos arrives on Earth to discover the homeless guy who was intimidated into being an informant to Detective Chicago Head, Mo, trying to save some other homeless people from being attacked by people on Loco. Colos intimidates him into being his Earth informant as well. Hopefully Mo will get his own Darkstars band too. The Dallas cop raids the warehouse where Mo told him the Loco was being distributed. What he finds is a huge alien creature and a brush with death. Or maybe death since the issue ends with the creature attacking him. But I'm pretty sure the guy becomes a Darkstar himself. I don't think I'd have an image of a Chicago-looking cop with a thick mustache and thicker head in a Darkstars uniform in my head otherwise and I'm not laughing at your perverse alternative reason for it. Darkstars #1 Rating: B-. It's just a cops in space comic book but more so than Green Lantern. I'm revising my pitch to this: "So if the Green Lanterns are sort of space cops, imagine Green Lanterns that are even more space copier! They'll be so much like cops that they'll hire an Earth cop immediately!" I think this was before John Stewart was known as a marine and Guy Gardner was known as a cop (or son of a cop? I'm so bad at remembering the DC history I should remember. I blame my brain having to react to all the retcons and crises). So having a legitimate cop on the space force would have been a novel idea. Oh, also, it was a mediocre cops in space comic book.

#Darkstars #Michael Jan Friedman #Larry Stroman #Scott Hanna #DC #DC Comics

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theclaravoyant · 7 years

Note

Pride prompt Coffee shop AU wheee Skye is kicked out by her foster parents and she runs into May who decides to take her home where she lives with her girlfriend Natasha

AN ~ lucky you get to jump the queue as it allows me to cover a few further up the list as well :D I hope you all like your found families with an extra helping of Gay™ this time of year! also tagging @mocking-point who prompted me something similar a while back in relation to this fic (tw: abuse), and @the-shy-and-anxious-fangirl, sorry I don’t write much Maria, but I put a little of her in here for you

main relationships: Skye & May, May x Nat. some background Skimmons.

Rated T mostly for swearing and some sexual references, but in this fic Skye is underage, so I won’t be writing any smut for it, though I am open to other prompts in this ‘verse.

Read on AO3 (~2000 words)

Where the Heart Is

There was always a place at Mack’s with her name on it, the manager had told Skye once. She’d been grateful for it at the time, but never more than in this moment, as she hissed and swore at her computer screen and its crappy wifi and everything that her day, so far, had been. She had a backpack, a duffel, and her computer bag surrounding her like rounded wagons; all her belongings in the world not even reaching the other side of the booth. She had a table at Mack’s with her name on it, and not much else except the tears running down her face.

“Shit- fuck – shit!” she muttered, wiping furiously at her tears and raking her hair back in one hand. Lincoln was out of town, Fitz and his mother barely had enough room for themselves, and Jemma was probably having her own ass handed to her right at this very moment. Mack had his daughter to think about, and Skye had way too much damage to bring herself to taint their lives with hers. She dragged her hands down her face, all the guilt and fear and panic combining into bitter-tasting, gut-wrenching shit.

“Can I help you?”

Skye was almost feeling too bad to be ashamed as she looked toward the source of the voice. It was an older woman, Chinese like her – and American-born too, by the sound of things. She looked… not emotionless, exactly, nor uncaring. A little bored, perhaps, and more than a shade judgemental, Skye would say, about the tirade of curses she’d been muttering for a while now. She took a moment to wonder why one of the staff hand’t asked her to be quiet or to leave, before she realised that the woman was still standing there.

“Sorry,” Skye said. “I got – I got kicked out again, that’s all, from this foster home place, and normally I’d crash at my friend Hunter’s but he’s got this new asshole landlord so I can only ask maybe one night out of him and everyone else I know can’t help so basically I’m fucked and I’m going to have to go back to St Agnes and then I’m really fucked and –“

The woman’s facial expression had barely changed. Maybe it wasn’t the swearing she’d hated, Skye speculated. Maybe it was just words.

“Sorry,” she said again. “Thanks for your concern but basically, unless you’ve got a spare room I can have for – well, pretty much free at this point – no, you can’t really help I don’t think.”

Skye turned her attention back to her computer screen, and to the swarm of Facebook messages that announced disappointment after disappointment. She closed the page and opened another blank one. There must be some kind of work-sharing, noticeboard exchange site that would help her out, surely. But what would she find there? Would she be willing to – what was it called, ‘bang for roof’? Was that even legal?

“Why’d you get kicked out?”

Skye jumped.

“Je-sus!” she exclaimed. The unflappable Asian woman was still there. Her odd, hard-to-read expression mad Skye want to spill all her secrets. She was homeless and crying in a diner anyway; what did she really have to lose?

“I had sex,” Skye confessed. “In their house. With a girl.” She shook her head. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure which part bothered them more, but I know what I’ll be hearing from the nuns about.”

She rolled her eyes, and put a smile on it. The stranger’s face changed. It was hard to tell, moving from one emotion to another on such a small scale, but there was something in it, Skye was sure. And it was something that, bizarrely enough, made her feel hopeful.

The woman took a pen out of her pocket, reached for a napkin, and wrote down an address.

“My name is May,” she said, sliding the napkin to Skye. “There’s a room here, if you want it.”

Skye felt her stomach twist. Her instincts made her want to trust May, but they’d also let her fall in love with the last place she’d stayed, and she’d been all but chased out over the threshold just now. Clearly her radar was off. At least on www.4-let.com she knew she could trust that sketchy feeling.

But when she looked up to decline the offer, May was gone.

She wasn’t sure what made her keep the napkin. Desperate times called for desperate measures, she supposed. For whatever reason though, it wasn’t long before it was playing on her mind again. Skye lay wide-awake on Hunter’s couch, staring up at an old, familiar stain on the roof. She’d spent many a comforting night on this couch, but this one seemed to get longer and harder as it went on, as if the bed and the roof were screaming at her in a language she could barely understand, that tonight was the last night she would even have this.

Unless.

The hairs tingled on her arms. It almost felt like the napkin was whispering to her, keeping her up until, at some point, she must have drifted off because she did remember waking, and what was there to wake from if not sleep? She felt about as fresh as the towels in Hunter’s bathroom, but nevertheless, she did manage to drag herself to the kitchen for a coffee and a bagel. Munching on one of the small joys she still had left in life, Skye pulled the napkin out of yesterday’s jacket pocket. It no longer seemed so menacing in the daylight, but for that unsettling feeling of wanting to trust it that came over Skye again.

Desperate times, she reminded herself, and took a picture of the napkin with her phone. On the sheet itself, she scrawled:

In case I get murdered, I’m at this address.If you haven’t heard from me by 5pm, call me, then call police.

Being back at Agnes was better than being dead, after all. Skye capped the pen with a short, sharp, satisfied sigh. That was it now, she thought. She’d committed, to the visit at least. No backing out.

It was with this attitude – albeit a little battered from her shift at work – that Skye got off the bus later that afternoon in front of an old blue and white colonial, behind a low brick wall and a slightly scrappy garden. She let herself through the gate and took a deep breath as she approached the door. It certainly felt like finding a new home, but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. And, she recalled, it was the middle of the afternoon. If May had any kind of regular adult life, there might not be anyone home after all.

Skye was contemplating bailing when a smiling face appeared from around the corner of the house. It was another woman, a little younger than May, with short flame-bright red hair. She carried a small potted plant in one hand and a trowel in the other, which Skye thought was a little odd given the state of the garden, and in the middle of the day, but it was not the strangest thing she’d ever seen. Certainly not as strange as giving a crying girl in a coffee shop your home address.

“Hi,” greeted the woman. “Ni hao.”

“Uh, hi,” Skye greeted eventually. “Sorry, I don’t – I don’t speak much Mandarin. I’m a California girl.”

“What brings you to these parts then, hm?” the woman asked.

“I’m looking for May?” Skye pulled out her phone and showed the woman the photo of the napkin. “She gave me this.”

The woman smiled fondly at it.

“Alright then. Come on in, I’ll give you the tour. I’m Natasha by the way. Call me Nat.”

“Skye.”

She followed Nat inside and was shown around; upstairs, downstairs, the bathrooms, the kitchen. When they got there, Nat offered her a drink, and started making coffee before she could answer.

“Any questions?”

Skye was distracted by the pictures on the fridge. This was definitely May’s house. In fact, judging by some of these photographs, it was May and Nat’s house. Skye smiled, feeling her heart clench at a particularly domestic shot of the two of them: a younger couple, in front of their home – sold! – and both of them with matching smiles, broad and toothy, and with their arms around each other, as if they’d been laughing before the shot or about to collapse into it. It felt like such a distant dream, that she could be that happy. It was heartening beyond what she could have imagined, to feel that happiness – and so much more – in the bones of this house.

Nat sidled up beside Skye, smiling to herself.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” Skye said, blushing a little as she turned away from the fridge and accepted the coffee Nat held out. Nat shrugged.

“We wouldn’t keep them on the fridge if we didn’t want visitors seeing,” she explained. “And it’s not like you wouldn’t figure it out, if you moved in. We like to get any awkward questions out of the way early.”

Skye nodded. “I can appreciate that.”

“May tells me that shouldn’t be a problem with you though, should it?” Nat raised an eyebrow, the implication so unavoidable that Skye blushed a little.

“I guess not,” she said. “As long as it doesn’t bother you?”

“Only after 9pm on a school night.”

Skye snorted.

“And you’re telling me I can stay here – for as long as I want – for free?”

“As far as we’re concerned? Absolutely. Legally? That’s a different matter. Fortunately, we have a lawyer coming to help us out. May’s with her now.”

“You knew I was coming?” Skye wondered. Nat smiled cryptically.

“May did.”

“How? Even I didn’t know I was coming ‘til this morning.”

“Yes you did,” Nat replied simply. Skye raised her eyebrows, but drank her coffee. It was a stranger day than she’d been expecting, but she knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

There was a knock at the door and then it opened, and a tall dark-haired woman with a face that reminded Skye of an eagle marched through it enthusiastically, tailed by May, who was even smiling a little. She knew Skye would be here, and she knew that Skye would be impressed that she’d been anticipated.

“This is Maria,” Nat said, gesturing between them. “This is Skye.”

“Maria Hill,” the other woman said, holding out her hand. Her suit and stern features gave Skye the impression that she’d be just as straight-laced as May, but there was a sparkle of amusement in her eyes. “Ace attorney. Welcome to Nat and May’s Forever Home for Wayward Gays. It’s nice to meet you.”

Skye blinked, confused, and forgot the actual shaking part of the handshake for a moment.

“Forever what-now?”

Nat groaned. May rolled her eyes.

“Nothing,” Maria brushed her off with a cheeky shrug. “It really is nice to meet you. It’s just, these two get me around for custody stuff fairly often, that’s all. There’s often sensitive issues at play and it’s nice to have somebody from, you know, ‘the community’ on the case.”

“You’re – I mean you’re –“ Skye glanced at the photograph on the fridge. “Too?”

Maria shook her head.

“Ace, baby, all the way. But we take all sorts here.”

“Really?” It was not lost on any of them, the way Skye’s face lit up, and she blushed a little. After so many years being raised by a stifling church, and their network of often-just-as-stifling foster applicants, this was starting to feel like a whole new world. And she thought of Jemma, and if that went wrong, and of what if it did and they could live here, together, in this little piece of freedom. And even if they couldn’t – which would be good, of course, if Jemma could stay with her family who loved her – Skye could feel herself breathing easier here already.

May pulled something out of her pocket, and put it on the counter. A key.

“It’s yours if you want it,” she said.

Skye didn’t have to be asked twice.

#daisy johnson #melinda may #may & daisy #melinda may x natasha romanoff #aospositivitynet #happy pride!#found family #adoption #prompt me stuff #clara's fic tag #Anonymous

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thesketchiestone · 7 years

Text

The Woes of the Zombie Man

Chapter I

During which the reader becomes acquainted with Boris and his beloved buddy Bugger

Due to the abundance and the enormity of the festering boils that had plagued him his whole life, Boris Buford had long been the butt of many jokes and the source of many nightmares. Thanks to a rare and, as far as he knew, incurable skin disease, the entirety of his body was covered with grotesque pocks that closely resembled the open wounds of a bullet-riddled carcass of any kind. Outbreaks of red and green cysts stood out against the pale casing his body was wrapped in. His oozy limbs constantly swelled with pus and caused him no small amount of discomfort. The terrible ailment had bothered him to the point of anguish in his youth, and at an early age he had become fearful of his peers and the ridicule they produced, so he had learned to keep to himself in an effort to avoid scaring people or hearing newly invented nicknames for himself or any one of the thousand other unwanted annoyances he knew all too well that came with participating in society. Conditioned to be distant, he decided not to bother people with his gruesome presence. Becoming a homeless recluse, he chose to suffer alone, thereby suffering a little bit less. Boris was fully aware of how unappealing his visage was to others, and although it saddened him to admit it, he found his own reflection rather frightening and had made a habit of avoiding mirrors. Folks around town knew him as the Zombie Man, which only added to his already insurmountable grief. Needless to say, he was somewhat of an ugly duckling.

Bleak Boris Buford was born and bred beside Biloxi in Boonesville, a small municipality slightly less populated than you’re imagining it to be, and he had never once stepped even a single foot outside the county line. He existed mainly in the shadows of alleyways to keep himself from being seen by others, though sightings of him were reported from time to time, and were always thoroughly discussed. The misfortune of the Zombie Man was well known throughout his hometown and was frequently talked about. Boris became something of a myth and rumors spread viciously, adding to his macabre mystique.

His mother and father had abandoned him when he was still a child, because – and this cannot be stressed enough – he was as nauseating as is visually possible. Even at such a young age he was offensively taxing on the eyes. One day his parents had had enough, so they up and threw him away. In a garbage bin. Mr. and Mrs. Buford shed many tears at having deserted their only child; not from the guilt, but out of self-pity. Though his parents were right in thinking he was an awful excuse for a baby boy, they later admitted that perhaps they could have handled the situation with more tact. Nevertheless, Boris somehow survived and grew up to be an amazingly unattractive young man, and an even uglier adult.

His only friend in the world was Bugger, a sickly flea-ridden mutt with a terrible case of mange. Boris had bonded deeply with the hideous dog, and he cherished the animal’s friendship more than anything. Constantly praising the loyalty of his companion, he would embrace and pet the gross beast day and night. Caressing his pal was often quite painful, as both creatures usually had ulcers leaking from head to toe, but that had never stopped them from expressing the camaraderie they held so dear. They were inseparably close, both at heart and in physical proximity, at all times. The appalling exterior of the two monstrosities did not agree with the beautiful love they shared, as Boris and Bugger both possessed kind and gentle souls, but to see the two of them together was such a horrific sight even the most righteous nun in the world would have found it difficult to show them any generosity.

Having so little to do with his fellow man, Boris was between jobs, and had never been employed at all for that matter. Living so many years without money had made him resourceful. Painstakingly, through countless woeful tribulations, he had grown accustomed to dumpster diving in order to provide for himself and his amigo. In fact, the duo had first met while excavating a trash can behind a diner, and it was then they had shared their first meal of foul fowl parts. Rummaging through the waste supplied them with anything and everything their hearts desired, as long as their hearts desired discarded junk and rotting leftovers, which had never been the case. Still, ransacking trash receptacles sustained them. Occasionally, on certain nights as infrequent as they were exciting, when another mouthful of garbage scraps could not be stomached, Boris would steal. It was on a night such as this that he set his sights on Gitcha Goods, a corner store, and it is here we will join the pair of vagrants as they prepared for the famous caper during an instance that will be recounted now.

Chapter II

In which the baffling buffoonery of the Boonesvillian banditos begins

Hiding in an alley across the street from Gitcha Goods, peeking around the corner, crouching in the darkness, and generally exhibiting shifty behavior in a number of ways, Boris turned to his mangy counterpart, licked his lips, and said:

“We’re gon’ be eatin’ good tonight, boy.”

Bugger weakly wagged his limp tail in agreement. The diseased dog knew what delicacies he could soon expect, as he was familiar with Boris’s mannerisms, and all signs pointed towards good eatin’.

Boris was all business; he had consumed so much spoiled grub lately, and fresh meals were so few are far between, any opportunity to swipe a proper feast was no laughing matter. Concealing himself in the adjacent alley, he focused his unblinking gaze through the glass door of Gitcha Goods on the store clerk, an extremely sloppily dressed young girl.

She was unaware of the attention being given to her as she sat behind the counter bored and high out of her mind. She was new to town, and in order to compensate for her lack of friends she had continued her daily doing of drugs and downing of drinks to depress her depression. She had not yet heard of the Zombie Man, and as anyone who was familiar could relate, a person seeing him for the first time was guaranteed to be taken aback, especially with the bonus of Bugger, who was equally as shocking. The store clerk sat behind the counter breathing through an open mouth, alone in the building, staring dumbly at nothing in silence.

As Boris waited for her to get off work and leave him to his thievery he did not look away from the corner store that housed his future dinner.

“Ya know what, Bugger boy,” Boris said to his only pal, “I bet they got jerky in there. I know you’d love some jerky, wouldn’t ya, boy?”

Bugger responded with a string of drool and a whimper so wimpish it would have broken the heart of anyone who had heard it, as long as they had not seen the source of the sound, in which case they would have felt nothing but repugnance, because, as has already been stated, Bugger was hideous beyond belief, and was repulsing to all who were unlucky enough to lay eyes on him. It was true though, that Bugger loved jerky. Boris knew this and hoped desperately the corner store had some available, because he loved the dog more than he loved himself, and wanted only good things for his compadre. He was determined to provide, but he did not yet know how he would break in and acquire the nourishment. All he knew was that night he and Bugger would be doing some good eatin’.

Boris hid in the alley, staring at the clerk intently, biding his time until the store was unattended. Picturing all the deliciousness he would have in his clutches and gullet before long, he was jittery, delirious with desire, manic with anticipation.

Bugger, stricken with hunger and fantasizing about tasty treats, sat still in suspense, looking forward to whatever morsels their plunderous activities might bring. The two skeletal delinquents remained hidden and frozen in this manner for over an hour, awaiting their supper with mouths watering, transfixed by the neon sign that read “Gitcha Goods.”

Boris was curious as to why the clerk did not leave when her shift ended; he knew the store’s hours of operation well, and had observed and recorded her departure for several nights. It was well past three o’clock in the morning, which, according to his calculations, was after closing time. She should have left. There was no logical reason for her to still be holding her post, which made Boris worry she was on to him. She appeared to be facing the alley he and Bugger were hiding in, and he suddenly found it plausible, if not probable, that she had been watching him for quite a while. Contrary to his fears, the inebriated store clerk had fallen asleep with her head propped up in her hands, her elbows on top of the counter in a pool of drool.

Agitated by the enemy’s strategic maneuver, Boris turned to his ailing ally in the alley and hissed, “How does she know? Bitch is tryin’ to foil our plot, boy.”

Nervous and hungry as hell, Boris could not imagine shoveling through another dumpster for something to eat. He did not care if his mission had been compromised; he had to follow through with his plan, even though it had yet to be formulated. Distressed to the point of madness, he decided what he was going to do then and there.

“We’re fuckin’ doing this, boy,” Boris exclaimed to his starving cohort, “I don’t give a shit anymore. Tonight’s the night we’re gonna eat good. Let’s just fucking do it!”

He then charged Gitcha Goods with complete disregard to stealth and sensibility.

At this point it is necessary to remind you, dear reader, just how horrendous and upsetting a spectacle Boris was; his hide a hot bed harvesting pimply pocks packed with pus, bloody boils as big as blueberries, and gross growths galore; and Bugger, the corpse-like canine, in the same miserable condition, not a pinch more pleasing to perceive. There was not a man alive whose stomach would not churn at the sight of them.

The two miscreants crashed into the glass door and entered the store. The clerk awoke, astonished and dumbstruck. The violent variation of vodka and Vicodin that voyaged through her veins with vigor, in addition to the marathon of The Walking Dead she had been watching for two days straight and the gruesome appearance of the two figures in the doorway, assured her civilization had fallen and the apocalypse had begun.

Ducking behind the counter without a peep, her eyes began to scan her immediate surroundings for a weapon. Finding only a mechanical pencil and a stapler, she grabbed the office supplies; pencil in the right hand, stapler in the left. She breathed as inaudibly as she could, hunkering down and not moving a muscle.

Paying no attention to anything other than filling his face with food and forgetting his famishment, Boris dropped to his knees and began to gorge, ferociously ripping cookies and coffee cakes out of their wrappers with an enthusiasm never before seen for such cheap snacks. Bugger found a shrine of assorted jerkies and joined in on the festivities, viciously attacking a box of teriyaki flavored beef sticks. The disgusting duo continued insatiably devouring everything they could, giving not a single thought to the Gitcha Goods employee in the same room.

Hiding behind the counter at the front of the store, the clerk was terrified. She had never heard of zombies eating prepackaged goods, or of zombie dogs, but she was no expert on the subject. The abruptness of the situation hadn’t allowed her to think rationally, and her intoxication didn’t make her any more reasonable.

The furious feasting, during which Boris and Bugger ate much more than they had in the previous three weeks combined, lasted only around fifteen minutes. Exhausted and stuffed, they lay on the tile floor and moaned in satisfaction. On their backs, side by side, in sedentary bliss, they let the fluorescent light bathe them. The clerk, taking notice of how slothful the monsters had become and seeing their pause in activity as advantageous, opted to strike before it was too late.

Knowing what had to be done, she leapt from her cover, let out a deafening war cry, rushed the zombie of human physiology, drove a flurry of staples into his skull, and stabbed the mechanical pencil into its head and neck repeatedly.

Going from total ecstasy to fearing his death in the blink of an eye, Boris was bewildered by the barrage. He pushed the assailant off of him, stood up, and tried to run towards the door, but because he was so full, he moved at a pace better described as a lumber. The store clerk, still stoned, staunchly stabbed and stapled with strengthening strikes as Boris fled. Bugger saw how badly his friend was being treated, tapped into his guard dog instincts, slowly got up, and waddled his way over to the commotion in order to give some assistance. Once he finally reached the quarrel, the clerk saw him, shrieked, and kicked the undead dog with all of her might, breaking a few of his ribs. When the dog fell down she stabbed and stapled it a few times for good measure before hiding behind the counter again and feverishly reciting a prayer. The two friends retreated in a panic, wailing in excruciation. They exited the glass door and didn’t look back. The clerk locked the door right away. Her heart was racing as she thanked the heavens she was still alive. She tried to calm down and catch her breath as she picked up the store’s phone, called the police, and earnestly reported a zombie attack.

Boris and Bugger rendezvoused in the alley across the street from Gitcha Goods and collapsed pitifully.

“Oh, man. She fucked you up,” blurted Boris as he brushed Bugger’s beaten back. “Got you good, didn’t she, boy? Tramp got me too. Unnecessary if you ask me. I saw you going to town on some jerky, though. That’s good. At least we got you that.”

Boris smiled faintly as the staple wounds in his head steadily trickled blood. Being almost certain he had gone blind in his left eye thanks to the stabbings from the pencil, he felt as if he might faint, puke, or die. Bruised and battered and licking their wounds, our heroes huddled together, dreading the damned dumpster diving they would undoubtedly do the next day, wondering if they would ever eat that good again.

Chapter III

Which tells of a time Boris and Bugger experienced a bout of “food” poisoning

For many days they reminisced on the good eatin’ they had done and been punished severely for, wondering if they would ever again enjoy such luxuries. They would, of course, just not for some time. Quite a while, really. After a spell of dreadful hunger they found themselves devastatingly starving for a bit. Suffering from such a perilous case of the munchies for so long left them both weak and utterly hopeless. Succumbing to extreme caloric deficit, they had begun unenthusiastically scouring dumpsters. After chewing on something he mistook to be edible, Boris, on the verge of tears, fell to the pavement and screamed:

“We can’t live like this, boy!”

He groaned for a few seconds, wailed for a few more still, and carried on with a series of unintelligible, depressing noises. Soon actual words escaped from his mouth, and he whiningly said, “There’s nothing any good for us in these damn dumpsters. It’s all trash. All of it! Why don’t people ever toss out a pizza or two?”

He then threw up his hands in incredulity.

“Are you trying to tell me nobody ever has too many quesadillas? I call bullshit! There’s gotta be at least a couple little pieces of prime rib somebody could do without and just place real nicely in this here dumpster. I know it. But no! Nothing. I don’t know about you, boy, but I can’t do it. I just can’t! If somebody doesn’t throw away a rotisserie chicken or somethin’ like it real soon, I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

His anger dissipating, he paused and became calm. Looking down and shaking his head, he picked at his fingernails and said, “Maybe I’m just putting on airs. Maybe this is the way it’s gotta be. We’ve had it worse than this before, I know. But how much can we take, boy? I guess we just been pampered by all those fancy snacks. Thought we was rich folk, didn’t we, boy? Well, we ain’t. Maybe we deserve this. Maybe we’s spose’ta live like this. Are you even listenin’ to me?”

Bugger, whose nose had grown an itchy fungus of sorts, continued licking a rash on one of his mangy hind legs, paying little attention to the long-winded spew of complaints being directed at him.

Boris grumbled for a while longer about his lack of nachos and similar subjects, then the moderately one-sided discussion came to an end. Night passed, and the two friends woke up hungrier than usual. Joints cracking as he rose from his concrete bed, Boris rubbed his knobby knees and noticed how strangely gaunt he had become. Looking down at his legs, he saw two misshapen, spindly poles, like laminated twigs. An emaciated boogeyman, he was thinner than most supermodels and inversely as arousing, aesthetically speaking. Bugger looked to have drastically dropped a few pounds as well. The mutt’s belly discovered itself to be shockingly close to the underside of his spine, and his ribs, both broken and not, jutted out at disturbing angles, stretching his deplorable skin. Boris saw the sad state his friend was in and pitied him. Even though he was no better off, he placed Bugger’s wellbeing before his own, if only by a smidgen. He had to help.

Finding a new sense of purpose, with a surge of determination, Boris decided he was going to find a way, somehow, for them to do some good eatin’ yet again. At that or any other moment a storm of brilliant ideas did not overflow or even trickle into his mind. His thoughts were few. Not knowing what else to do, he began foraging in every dumpster he knew of, searching garbage cans large and small, until he finally scrounged up a brownish, questionable substance they might could eat. Very questionable indeed. It was meat, Boris thought. Or an old salad, perhaps. A poorly executed quiche? It very well could’ve been something other than food, but Boris was optimistic. He gestured to Bugger to smell it. Bugger did so, but was unsure as to how he felt about it. They looked at it. They looked at each other, then looked back at the possibly food in unison, looked one more time into each other’s hungry eyes, and pounced on it.

Whatever it was was gone within seconds.

Boris got up off of his knees and brushed himself off. Bugger tried wagging his tail, but it didn’t feel right. Embarrassed and regretful, they avoided making eye contact as they walked to where their home wasn’t. After taking less than ten steps, Boris felt a tingling sensation in his stomach he knew meant nothing good. He looked down at Bugger, who was dry heaving violently, and braced himself as the tingling quickly grew into a rolling wave of sickness wrenching his gut. Bugger had already begun to spasm wildly, defenseless against the throes that were throwing him about. Overtaken by convulsions, abdomens seized and knotted, the unfortunate pair clutched at the ground and scrambled, as if trying to leave the pain behind. Their howls and screams of agony soon dwindled into soft cries and before long all was silent. Whatever the stuff had been it had really given their innards a good thrashing. Boris was as sick as a dog; the one trembling next to him in particular. After five hours of lying in the hot sun and allowing it to dry out their oft-wet open sores, they still didn’t feel well at all. Both of them lay on the concrete until nightfall, looking especially cadaverous, with their insides in ruins. It just goes to show the misstep it can be to chow down on a mysterious blob of unidentified stuff – specifically if the mysterious blob of unidentified stuff being chowed down upon is a few heavily deteriorated washcloths tangled together.

Chapter IV

Regarding our heroes stay in the little shack

Months passed but the washcloths never did.

As the sky warped from a drizzling gray to a sunny blue, it was unaware of how desperate the dumpster diving duo beneath it had become. It had been a tough few days for the two rejects and things weren’t looking up. After dining on a plentitude of assorted condiment packets, Boris and Bugger were less than satisfied, but not for long. When they had almost surrendered their hope and quit their search empty-handed, they stumbled upon a good deal of raw dough that had semi-baked in a sun-scorched aluminum garbage can and really turned out to be quite palatable. Having some packets left over, Boris spread relish on the bread he relished as he fed.

Feeling full and finding the future less foreboding than they customarily found it, Boris and Bugger took a walk. A long one, out of town, following a path towards the trees, with no destination and no worries. They felt the breeze and the sunlight on their faces as Boonesville faded from view behind them, its alienating judgments seeping away with it. They looked up at the clouds and the lack thereof. Bugger ran around chasing nothing while Boris chased him. Tall grass tickled their scabby legs as they ran through it, laughing. Making his way back to the path, Boris watched the blue sky melt into orange, appreciating the tranquility. Thinking he’d rather taken a liking to the act of breathing, Boris’s disgustingly chapped lips were almost tempted to smile. He thought he might have been feeling happy, but he had nothing to use for reference. Without disturbing the calm, Boris and Bugger followed the path quietly, keeping their eyes to the front, and in no time they saw themselves nearing the trees.

Passing into the woods, the path threaded through the thick, living columns. Leafy branches rattled and shook around them as they took it in. Shadows jumped forward and retreated back again as the sun broke through the trees’ extremities. The woody, waving fingers of the forest welcomed Boris and Bugger in as the breeze blew by, making them feel as at home there as they did anywhere, for reasons that should be evident. They walked respectfully among the commotion, mesmerized by the motioning greenery, captivated by it all.

Still following the weaving path into a sparsely wooded area, the trees dissolved and they entered a clearing. They saw in front of them, not far off, a little shack. It stood alone, encircled by the forest. The front door was open, creaking back and forth in the wind. Exploring his curiosity, Boris approached it slowly. The closer he got to the place the emptier it seemed.

Advancing from the side, they reached the building and crept around to the front. Boris stopped and put his ear to a window, keeping himself from view. He heard nothing but the creaking door. Guessing it safe, they poked their heads in through the open doorway, with their bodies waiting outside for the time being as they scanned the small, one-room domicile. If outwardly it had appeared to be abandoned, inwardly it appeared even more so. Stepping in all the way, they took a leisurely look around the place, and after discovering a stash of canned foods in a drawer, they instantly took a liking to it, and didn’t plan on leaving it unattended for the foreseeable future, deciding that squatting was the proper thing to do in such an establishment.

Boris finally got his hands on an elusive can opener, and life was good. Living as lavish as lords, they enjoyed home-style beans, chili, and tuna. The whole nine. With each mouthful their spirits soared higher. In a dreamlike stupor, they pigged out nonstop, force feeding their haggard frames, nodding off into inevitable food-comas, waking from one dream and falling into another. They kept this up for what felt like an eternity. Then the seemingly never-ending supply of food ran out. It had only been three days.

Chapter V

During which Boris is interrupted by and retaliates against libelers

Pot smoke swam between the brick walls of the alley as the wind played with it, possibly a little high itself. A rickety, lousily rolled blunt was passed from one misfit to another as a fit of coughing echoed between the walls. Seeing as hip hop and existentialism had already been thoroughly discussed, there seemed to be nothing left to talk about, when one of the grungy young men broke the silence and said, “I haven’t seen the Zombie Man in a minute, man. I wonder what that frickin’ sicko’s been up to. Probably some sick shit, I tell you that.”

“Oh, for sure,” replied the infinitesimally grungier of the two, “I bet he’s doing somethin’ super sick right now. Like voodoo wizardry or terrorizin’ the elderly or somethin’. Dude scares me, man.”

“I feel you. Just seeing him scares me. He’s for sure the sickest lookin’ dude I ever saw. I mean, you know I watch some nasty ass shit online, but I’ve never seen anything as sick as him. And I’ve tried. But he takes the top spot, man, no doubt. Dude, just thinkin’ about him makes my stomach feel, like, sick, you know?”

“Oh yeah. I know exactly what you’re gittin’ at, dude. That creepy fucker makes me wanna blow chunks real bad. This might sound stupid ‘n’ shit, but like, he’s not a real zombie, right? ‘Cause he’s like, monster status, bro.”

The blunt was passed. Coughing commenced and was quickly concluded, and the enlightening conversation continued.

“No, he’s probably not the legit real deal, but that’s a good point, man. I heard from my boy he ate his own family but the cops are too scared to go after him. I don’t know if it’s true, but you never know. I wouldn’t even blame the Federales, ‘cause that guy is, like, not fun to look at.”

Thoughtful nods were shared.

“True, true. The Zombie Man is an ugly dude, that’s for sure. Maybe even the ugliest dude in the world. I mean, think about it. Do you really think there could possibly be someone even…”

Out of sight but within earshot, digging around inside of a dumpster, Boris tired of listening to such verbal abuse being spouted so incompetently about him. He stopped looking for grub, climbed out unnoticed, and walked away till he heard no more.

The Zombie Man.

He couldn’t remember a time before that awful moniker. I wonder how long I’ve been living like this, Boris thought to himself. This line of thinking brought him to guess at how much time had sneakily crawled past him since his birth, the date of which he had long forgotten. He knew he wasn’t old yet, at least, he didn’t think it was so, but he didn’t feel young either. He caught a glimpse of himself as he passed a window. Approaching the cracked pane of glass to better study the face it framed, his already shrinking enthusiasm for living further depleted. To his own eyes he looked to have aged about fifty years postmortem, give or take a few dozen. It hadn’t been long enough since he’d last seen his wretched reflection, and judging by what he saw looking back at him, he was genuinely surprised he wasn’t an evil bastard. He definitely wasn’t the staunchest anti-immoralist, but he felt he was on the righter side of the ethical divide. He attempted to throw himself a good-natured smirk, landed on a scowl, and looked away, disheartened. Part of the problem was this: his skin, droopy and tight simultaneously, caused his features to appear unfathomably uncertain as to whether they were trying to convey their owner to be ecstatic or in mourning. Given one could look past the soul-tormenting morbidity of his detrimental skin condition, which one certainly could not, to determine exactly what he was feeling was a formidable task. Even when sleeping he looked like he might be smiling maniacally or bawling uncontrollably.

He didn’t know why people bothered coming up with all the slanderous stories about him, but he had heard some good ones.

“I never did nothin’ to nobody. Talkin’ about me all nasty. They must know somethin’ I don’t. No good sons’a’bitches!”

Feeling downtrodden with his hands in his pockets, kicking at the gravel, he stopped and thought a new, delightful thought: Maybe I can do something to make their perceptions less false. This thought brought to his face a devilish grin and he said:

“I’ll show those punks a Zombie Man. C’mon over here Bugger. We got some scarin’ to do.”

Creeping up from behind the grungy burnouts, one of whom was displaying his expertise on blunt rolling and giving the other a few pointers after some heavy criticism, Boris and Bugger were careful, keeping their movements slow, low, and quiet. Hidden around a corner, about fifteen feet away from his prey, Boris halted and listened.

“Dude, I don’t think Clinton even got a blowie. It was all just a cover-up so Obama could steal the oil. Have you even seen Zeitgeist?”

Boris was relieved that they were no longer talking about him, but the fact remained: they had to pay for their insolence.

Boris took a deep breath and walked into the alley with Bugger at his side. The two boys carried on with their conversation, not noticing the newcomers. To get their attention, Boris, who did not have much experience deliberately scaring people, coughed politely into his fist. The boys stopped talking, turned around, and looked at the intruding buzzkills, dumbfounded. Boris looked right back at them, slightly confused about what he should do next. After ten silent, awkward seconds, Boris recalled his enemies’ insolence and their having to pay for it, so he shook his arms in the air and ran at them yelling, “Boogaboogabooga!”

The two boys were flabbergasted. They cried out in fright as they fled. As Boris closed in on them, still waving his arms above his head and yelling what he thought to be scary noises, one of the boys fell and curled up into a ball, giving up completely. Boris let the other boy go free and stood there with his hands on his hips, towering over the pathetic bundle of fear quivering beneath him. He felt powerful. Bugger stood beside him, exposing his teeth and growling at the scaredy-cat. Totally in control, with his hate for those who had shown him hate fueling his decisions, Boris pointed at the young man and yelled:

“Sick him, boy!”

When Bugger lunged at the shrieking young man cowering on the ground, the other stoner blindsided the dog with a powerful kick to the body, re-breaking all of his previously broken ribs and breaking for the first time a few more. Without knowing what to do next, Bugger played dead and wished he was. Panicking and sensing his grip on authority slipping, Boris tried to grab the attacker to prevent another kick from being landed on his incapacitated compadre, but he was promptly dealt a devastating haymaker to the chin, sending him to the ground in a bloody heap.

“Nasty, bro! I got his juices on my hand! Sick!”

As the assailant frantically tried to wipe blood and pus from his hand, half afraid he might turn, his fallen friend stood up with regained moxie and stomped on Boris’s and Bugger’s legs a good many times, crunching and grinding their grisly tendons into mush, to ensure they stayed down. And down they stayed.

“I think they’re dead, man. What the fuck?!”

“The Zombie Man never stays dead, dude! His hellhound don’t neither! We gotta go before they resurrect and eat us or some shit!”

The petrified potheads then dashed off at a full sprint covering about a hundred yards, at which point they stopped to wheeze violently, smoke a quick joint, and discuss Jay-Z’s involvement in 9/11.

Crippled and defeated, using only his arms, Boris sluggishly crawled towards Bugger, who was also crippled and defeated. Boris rested his head beside his friend’s on the cold ground. In this fashion he ruminated peacefully on the evening’s happenings, hurting badly.

Chapter VI

In which Boris begs the Butcher

The Butcher smiled. Within the dank recess of his meat emporium’s killing room, pacing on a blood-stained and soon to be blood-soaked floor, he cradled a fully grown pig in his gargantuan arms as he stared deep into its eyes and whispered to it in sweet, nonsensical baby talk. He sang to it the same lullaby he always sang in these situations, and it sounded as good as it never did. The pig oinked softly, happily dreaming and then happily not, lulling in and out of consciousness. The Butcher kissed the beast wetly on the snout, then forcibly shoved a substantial hand into the thing’s mouth, his arm following it in well past the elbow. The muscles of his forearm danced inside the animal’s throat as his fingers searched blindly for its heart, which they soon found, removed, and tossed still beating into the fryer before being licked clean each individually by a bearded mouth and thrust into the pig once more, hunting for something else. They weren’t sure what yet. Whatever they found would most likely be used in some capacity, seeing as the Butcher wasn’t much one to waste.

He didn’t believe in paying another man to do a job he could easily do himself and he definitely didn’t want anyone under the impression that he was just a meat middleman. Hell no. He was equal parts slaughterer and salesman, and his killing room was where the meat he sold was harvested. He had brought doom to many a species of beast in that room. Pigs. Chickens. Rabbits. Possums. Deer. Cows. He had once slayed a bucking bronco with a sledgehammer just to see what it would taste like fried. This death-loving, angry-browed, foul-smelling behemoth of a man who never wore a shirt not covered in blood stains was the sole owner and operator of A Meat Shop, his aptly named place of business.

The sun had barely risen and Boris was already having a bad day, as was the norm. Dumpster diving halfheartedly, he was having trouble committing himself wholly to his craft. Perusing particularly putrid perishables peeved him as he peered across the parking lot at a portly person publicly punishing a pan-fried pork chop on a patio. He or she looks well-fed, Boris reflected as he wasn’t. Boris gazed on as the pork-chop was greedily wolfed down. He had never eaten a cut of meat like that before, but if he had, he imagined it would have been an agreeable occurrence. As he enviously watched the globular guy or girl put away the platter with gusto, Boris slid into a meat-induced hunger trance. Visions of succulent steaks swirled in his mind, occupying his full attention. His eyes stopped focusing on actuality as deeply realistic daydreams of pot roast brought to his nose pungent smells he had never known but somehow loved. Vividly hallucinating, he stood there smiling and moaning with an almost sexual desire, starry-eyed, salivating, craving tender meats.

A car horn sliced through the air and Boris’s regrettable reality thudded back into place. His senses adjusted to his surroundings. Dizzily finding himself inside a dumpster, he let go of the garbage that was clenched in his hands. Wading waist deep in waste, a wave of want washed over his being. He needed to get his hands on a nice steak.

Discontinuing his dig in the filth, Boris jumped out of the dumpster with a calling. He briskly walked around the corner where Bugger was taking a nap in the shade. Bending down and petting the dog’s hairless, lumpy back, he pictured the two of them sharing a filet. He would find a way to make it happen. Walking off a ways so Bugger could sleep, Boris looked up into the sky and contemplated praying, but decided against it. It had never helped him before. Resolute in his aim but unsure how to proceed, he looked down and saw between his feet a twenty dollar bill. He picked it up and looked at the crumpled, rectangular piece of fabric in awe. He held in his hands more money than he had ever seen. He thought of the things he could do with it. He could buy something. Or he could make a purchase. Both ideas were alien. His body jolted as he was struck with a sudden revelation. He could buy meats.

Within the red brick walls of A Meat Shop, the Butcher was busy strangling a lamb to death with his bare hands. Outside of them, just across the street, Boris was cozily concealed inside a trashcan, examining the slaughterhouse through the slit under the can’s lid. He was apprehensive; he had encountered the Butcher before. Once, in his younger, braver days, Boris had gotten caught fishing for scraps in the dumpster behind A Meat Shop and been bludgeoned badly by a buffalo femur. Since then he had kept his distance. He knew he should continue to do so, but he was hungrier than he was scared of the Butcher. And he was terrified of the Butcher.

Observing the scene from his tasteless hideout, Boris used every brain cell he had on his person trying to think of a course of action in which he would accomplish his goal and not get pulverized in the process, but he came up with nothing. He knew only one thing: he couldn’t enter A Meat Shop looking the way he did. The Butcher would surely recognize and probably attack him, which could prove fatal. Boris also took into consideration the general sense of panic his being seen in public would without a doubt give rise to. The acceptability of his appearance was at the lowest trough yet in its wavelength, which was really more of a downward slope seeing as it had never experienced an upswing and was relatively steady in its descent. Every square inch of him was either blistered, scarred, gangrenous, greenish, warty, chapped, or blemished in some other way. In any case, all of him was thoroughly yucky. To squirm is the correctest, elective, selectable action permissible in reaction to his septic epidermis. Boris was confident that anyone who saw him enter the place would be responsible enough to call the police or the health inspector.

A light bulb flashed brilliantly in his head before blinking on and off a few times and burning out, but Boris decided to go with it anyway. He did not know very much about his target, but he did know very little. Boris had heard somewhere that the Butcher was a bit of a racist. This, coupled with the need to keep his own identity a secret, was the basis for his plan. With some reluctance, he slithered clumsily out of the trashcan and went off to gather the necessary materials. After half a day of dumpster diving, he discovered and donned a dirty, previously-white bed sheet he hoped would resemble a Ku Klux Klan uniform. And with that his plan was in action.

Wearing the unfashionable getup, he walked into A Meat Shop with his newly found money held high and declared:

“I’ll take twenty dollars of meat, please.”

But the Butcher, who was a surprisingly despicable man in terms of his personal views on civil rights and would have been proud to feed a fellow advocate of Klankraft at no charge, refused to serve him on grounds of confusion.

“No deal.”

In the Butcher’s defense, the bed sheet was very dirty and tattered and made a poor costume. It didn’t even come to a point atop Boris’s head. Hardly any blacks would have found it offensive.

The Butcher grumbled in a low, gravelly voice, “Just what in the hell are you supposed to be?”

“Well, actually, I–”

“Scratch that. I don’t wanna know. Just get out my shop, maggot.”

“Please, sir. All I ask of you is twenty dollars of meat.”

Boris extended the twenty into the air with both arms as a sign of good faith. Even his hands were covered by cloth as he held the cash. The only part of him that could be seen under the bed sheet were his beady, desperate eyes through two ripped holes.

Visibly annoyed, the Butcher flexed the arms he had crossed in front of his massive chest as he stared disdainfully at the disheveled crackpot who was waving money around and making odd requests. In his unique choice of apparel, the vagrant looked like a ghost without a house to haunt. The Phantom Hobo. The Butcher didn’t have time for this. He had a rambunctious pack of wolves in his killing room and he was anxious to try out his new broadsword.

“I told you to get out. I’m not gonna say it again.”

“I have money. Please, sir. I just wan–“

The Butcher had had enough. He snatched up a 72 ounce rib eye (bone in), jumped swiftly over the counter, and swung the flaccid steak with lethal force at the intruder’s head. The gigantic slab of meat wiggled in a wide arc with increasing speed and smashed into Boris’s face, breaking his nose and bloodying his mouth. Boris flew back, his feet just inches above the tiles. The way the bed sheet flapped as he hovered made him look like a real ghost, but instead of passing through the wall, his body slammed into it and he fell to the floor, nearly unconscious.

The Butcher walked over to the crumpled nuisance and slapped it around with the rib eye a little more. He then ripped the filthy cloth off its almost lifeless body.

“You! I remember you. You’re that little zombie boy.”

Blood leaked from Boris’s mouth and ran down his corroding face as he smiled up at the hulking death bringer and weakly croaked:

“It’s Zombie Man.”

The Butcher cocked the steak back behind his head and brought it down like a hammer. A wet whistle preceded a SMACK! Our hero, feeling fairly flattened, saw the Butcher move to ready a second blow, which both he and the Butcher knew would put him down for good, so he latched on to the juicy weapon tightly. The Butcher chuckled and easily lifted the steak in front of himself with one arm and Boris came up with it. Grabbing on to the steak fiercely, biting into it to improve his grip, Boris rose until the two were eye to eye. The brute looked at the rabid madman curiously for a few seconds. He didn’t know if he was more annoyed or amused with the pest.

“You’re a hungry little fucker, ain’tcha?”

The Butcher shook the giant piece of meat, but he could not free it from the hungry creature. Being jerked back and forth, enduring whiplash, Boris frantically clung to the steak with both arms and his teeth. The room wobbled around him as he hung on. His teeth sank farther into the meat and he hugged it with all of his strength. He felt weak, but he had never been so strong. He was going to bring the steak back to Bugger.

The Butcher laughed heartily as he shook and shook the dead flesh being clutched by seemingly dead flesh.

“You know what? I’m impressed. You can have it. It’s no good to me now.”

Holding the mishmash of meat and miscreant in front of him like a dirty diaper, the Butcher walked outside and threw the whole mess overhand towards the street. Boris watched the whole world whirl by before – Wham! Landing hard on his ass, still hugging the steak, he sat there stupidly. It was then clear to him just how big the hunk of meat was. It was as big as his torso and covered him like a beef blanket. He sat there longer, studying the thing incredulously. His entirety hurt, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t believe it. He had steak. His plan had worked perfectly.

Bugger had not moved all day. He was still asleep, relaxing in the cool breeze tunneling lightly down the alley. Boris found him lying there and smiled down at his best friend. He nudged the sleeping dog with his foot.

“Got us some real food, boy. We’re gonna be doin’ some good eatin’ tonight.”

Bugger woke with a start. What had resembled road kill seconds before was now full of life and excitedly running circles around its caretaker, the Guardian of Garbage. Even with his grievous injuries, Boris could not stop his heart from warming at the sight of his buddy. The duo sat down on the concrete, preparing for dinner. Boris did his best to cook the huge steak with a BIC lighter he had found on the ground, but the small, hand-held flame only charred the outside of it in grayish spots, leaving the center completely raw. Finding the eatin’ as good as it was likely to get, the main course was served. Boris gnawed gently on one end of it while Bugger tore himself off a large piece and swallowed it whole. Boris had lost some teeth from the meat beating, making it difficult for him to eat, but he was relieved. For the first time in a long time, he was focused not on surviving, but on enjoying himself, which he wasn’t. He was miserable. His mouth was so busted up he could hardly chew. But Boris could see how happy he had made Bugger, and that made it all a little easier to swallow.

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