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ofic kind of? - untitled. 1/?
dunno if i'm ever going to continue it, and the fandom characters are still pretty visible through the thin coat of OC paint, but this was a fun scene to write, so hey.
it was kinda for nano though and i haven't revised it to trim it down or fix stuff, fair warning.
--
Scene: a dock at night. In the distance lights glitter off skyscrapers; the sky is that murky light-pollution orange as far as the eye can see. The water is a weary spill of ink in the dark; you know it's here because you hear it lapping half-assed at the pier. Might as well be a black hole.
On the pier there's black where there shouldn't be. You zoom in. Dead dog? A seal? Fibers -- an abandoned fishing net?
It's a mass of human hair, still wet, locks long as a man is tall. The ends look haphazardly hacked through.
Hidden underneath is a dead body, fingers clenched in the hair, belly a mass of black-looking blood and exposed organs.
The camera flinches and turns to the land, follows the streets behind the docks. People -- rare at first, and then many, walking in pairs of groups and laughing. Sitting in restaurants. Spilling out of cinemas. Some of them have cat ears that twitch, eye-shadow that glows; a tough-looking guy struts down the street with his arms bare, ending in thick bear paws.
You zoom in again and there's a woman, standing with her back to you, hair cut short and bristly and black, fists on her hips. She's in a man's too-large, stained work pants and a T-shirt with the bottom torn off. Her feet are stuffed into fisherman boots.
The camera circles.
She's grinning, lit up by flickering advertisement boards. Someone passing by calls out something about the cool dental work she's sporting.
She looks rather like a shark.
Cue title screen.
--
--
The front wheel of his trolley is stuck again. Puta madre. He hauls it back a few steps, and hip-checks it forward. Squeak, squeak, clang. Ow. It catches, but it deigns to move again, and nothing fell off.
The men's shower room looks bleak and disgusting in this light, the tiles frozen and impersonal. Ezekiel hasn't been to a pool since he was nine; school trip. He can't imagine wanting to go again, now. He starts in on his routine. Check for forgotten shit in the stalls -- two shampoo bottles, a lone flip-flop, a meager hoard today. He lets the doors bang closed when he lets them go. The first and third ones whine -- need oiled, one of these days.
He empties the trash (picks up trash that missed the bin somehow,) cleans the sinks (clumps of hair, dried hair products), the mirrors (greasy, smeared hand prints, some more hair products.)
He mops up the first stall. The new graffiti is pretty uninspired. (If he had a felt pen on him he'd fix the spelling.) The hinges whine when he lets the door go.
Sounds kind of like a hurt cat.
He pushes the door of the second stall open, which shouldn't skree all high-pitched and...
... someone's sobbing, the terrified kind. It rings weird in empty, high-ceilinged rooms but it's not, he's not mistaking it, he can't.
The building should be empty, godfuckingdamnit, those asshole life guards are supposed to make sure. Then again, might be drunk kids who found a way in somehow, the fire escape door's alarm could be fucked again. Hell, mages have to be kids at some point in their lives.
Might be -- might be a guy and a girl, and she thought it would be fun, and it wasn't.
He fingers his cell phone. He's almost out of minutes and has no money to pay for more, and he hasn't even seen anything yet, and he ... promised his mom when he started working nights that if he started sounding like the guy who gets killed in the first five minutes of a movie he would, well, he would stop being a fucking moron.
He calls the cops. Public pool, disturbance, he thinks there might be an intruder. Yeah, sure, he'll stay back and not get involved. He has no plan of doing that. He is waiting for the patrol car. He is so waiting for the patrol car. His madre didn't raise no idiot son.
Not about survival, at least.
A hippo divebombs in the children's pool.
He sneaks through the corridor, to the edge of the door to the pool area -- the door is saloon style, swinging, and when he crouches low against the wall -- his heart is crawling up his throat, beating a drum in his temples -- he can look through the space underneath.
Half in the wading area, someone is fighting to drag themselves out. Their nails slide on the tiles, catch in the gouts and yank painfully free, they're whimpering, no, please, I'm sorry, please. On top of them is --
It looks like a person. In the dim light, it does.
It's splattered with dark wetness, there are dark clouds in the water and its teeth are --
"Jesucristo!" The head of the mop misses the assailant on the first pass -- he was facing them, it saw him coming -- he swings again, two-handed grip. He's screaming. "Back off! Back the fuck off! Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos--"
Where's his cross, where's his fucking cross, but he needs both hands for the mop, it's retreating into the pool out of mop reach, it's watching him, are its eyes black all the way through oh fucking hell, he hates vampires so much, hates them, they're gross, they're wrong--
"Run!" he screams at the victim, and then he glances down and huh, wow, the asshole has long since clambered out of the pool and is running for the doors and.
Oh. Shit. He's alone.
That motherfucker actually ran for it. Jesús María José. He knew he told him to but that son of a bitch could have hesitated!
There is no fucking way he can outrun a vampire, no matter if they'll have to get out of the pool first.
The other -- dude? Yeah, the victim was a dude -- doesn't matter if they can't outrun a vampire either, they just have to outrun Ezekiel, right?
His mom is the only person in the world who will miss him. He can feel the guilt trip all the way from the future.
He doesn't want to die. It's not fair. Like life hasn't shat on him enough already. How dare that fucking asshole come hunting in his place of employment?
It moves in the water some -- must be crouching, the pool isn't that deep -- and he lifts the mop threateningly.
"Oooh, no, you fucking don't, your maw is dripping blood everyfuckingwhere, you are not tracking that on my floors! I'm going to have to clean the filters already, shit, this is a major health hazard, was that cabrón sick with anything or what?"
It rises out of the water -- thigh up, huh, it's not tall, and it's a girl -- young woman, whatever -- and her face is triangular and kitten-cute and her eyes have those ridiculous too-thick-not-to-be-fake lashes, little glittery decoration are stuck to her face, plastic gems or cheap glamour or whatever.
She grins at him from ear to ear. Her teeth are rows of serrated arrowheads.
"Do you think you're fucking scaring me with that bullshit?! Puta, I've faced down werewolves with jaws long like your forearm, I could have put my head in there, your mouth could barely fit a dick!"
He pauses to breathe. His brain decides to take the occasion to reboot, in fits and starts.
"...Not that it'd be a smart thing to do, no way on Earth the dude wouldn't lose it." Oh god. "You're -- not a vampire. Are you."
She shrugs. Her shoulders are bare; she's wearing some kind of sportsy swimming tanktop, up her neck and encasing her chest down to a little under her breasts. The flesh looks weird along her ribs, like the shadows there are too deep when she isn't that starved-looking anywhere else.
"Oh."
If she's not a vampire, all the crosses and prayers of the world will do exactly jack shit to keep her off his tender neck.
"You wouldn't happen to be a demon. By chance."
Her laugh is low and rusty-edged, her voice sounds lower than his, motherfuck, and at twenty-six his balls have long since dropped, shit fuck hell, the harmonics are wrong, the hair is going up all the way down his neck, the skin between his shoulder blades pulling tighter all on its own.
"Nope. Sorry to disappoint."
"Oh." The mop is getting heavy. He is so not putting it down. "Were-shark?"
She laughs, and starts wading for the nearest edge of the pool, yeah, no. He charges around -- almost slips in, oh god, the adrenaline, he's gonna have such a headache -- threatens her with the mop again.
"You stay right in!"
"Aw, c'mon, bro, my gills are burning, this shit's nasty as hell."
"No!" he shouts, light-headed with fear and furious for being so afraid. "You keep your culo put right here and you wait for the fucking cops like a good man-eating girl!"
"Yeah, um, nope."
She grabs the head of his mop as he's swinging it at his head, and he clings to it hard, oh god, if she yanks it out of his hands he is so fucked, and instead she shoves it into his chest, a nice little jab right in his ribs that makes tears spring in his eyes. When he checks again she's pulling herself out of the pool, all long legs and swimmer's muscles, shit, those are scales.
She did mention gills. The were-shark hypothesis is gaining ground.
So fucked.
"The cops should be here any moment now," he says, and tries to sound more assured than he's feeling, and fails at it completely. He takes a step back, mop held between the two of them pointed right at her chest, like he thinks they're jousting and she'll actually fucking let him shove her back.
"Mnuh, you suck."
Is she pouting? She is. "I suck? I suck? Who's the one who came and bled some maricon all through the pool, do you think a little chlorine is gonna fix that? Do you have any idea how many bags of toxic shit I'm gonna have to haul and how late I'm gonna have to stay to clean up this mess? Is it your back gonna get all out of whack and your sleep--"
"Calm down, snarly. It's just a bit of a splash. Like, barely there." She sighs, puts her little finger in her ear and scratches to get the water out. "You coulda let me kill him first, where's my dinner now?"
He takes another step back, shoulders squared, narrows his eyes in irritated challenge. "Not in me, that's for damn sure."
Is he hearing sirens? Dear lord please make it so he's hearing sirens, and they're coming for him.
She's probably trying to lull him into a false sense of security, but so far it looks like a slow process. He has to keep her talking until the cops come. Yeah. He has to do that.
"What do you eat anyway, can't be blood, you wasted like a liter of it."
He has to keep her talking on any topic but the one that will remind her he has lunch stamped all over him.
"Hm?" She's rounding her spine, pulling her shoulders back, doing something weird with the... gills? on her chest. They flare, it's a bit disturbing that he thinks with more light he could be seeing inside her. "Livers. Best part."
"Livers?" Okay why the fuck not, he's heard weirder. Has he? Probably has. "Like, the meat, or the magic inside them or what?"
She blinks a little. "Huh. Iunno. I ain't any kind of spellcaster."
Ezekiel groans. "You don't know. You don't fucking know what you need to survive. Like, whether it's necessary to your survival. Do you even know if it has to be human livers? 'Cause they do sell that at the supermarket, lil bit of cash and whoa, you get not to be a murderer!"
The shark-girl pouts at him. "You kidding, right, I ain't got hardly any cash, why do I have to be giving it away. That asshole told me he had a big fat wallet in his locker too, when he was bragging about shit." She pauses, blinks her stupid long lashes, and then beams. "Oh hey! I bet he didn't stop by to take it. Score!"
... He just...
Yeah, he's flopping the gross end of the mop right in her face.
"Ewgh, what the heck!"
"You are not robbing anyone in my place of employment, I will make you eat shower stall scum."
Her eyes have gone narrow and glittery with offense, and fuck but they are nothing but black. She doesn't look as heavy as he is, even though she's a bit taller, but he knows a girl who's one-fourth werewolf and she can bench-press a car, that means jack shit. All the hair on his arms and legs stands up.
"No, seriously, think about how that looks! You get away with the money, and no one knows how you got in, the cameras don't catch you, you know what they're gonna think? That I set it the fuck up and I'm in on it, because I'm a bit colored." Okay, he's reaching a bit there -- the guy she attacked will know what truly happened well enough, if nothing else, and if he wanted to get into people's lockers he'd just have to switch to a day shift when they're actually full instead of trying the bear trap honeypot trick in the middle of the night, he's not stupid. "It doesn't even matter if it makes no logical sense, people are not logical and I'm not letting you get me in more trouble, the end."
"You're such a pain," she complains, and it's getting so hard to keep being properly terrified -- now he's only, what, mildly terrified, and a whole lot of incensed.
He'd yell some more, he's sure, only there are footsteps resonating on the tiles behind him, two sets, heavy boots, and he could sit on the floor right here and cry with how relieved he feels.
She pouts -- pouts, fuck's sake -- and then she's turning around and taking right off for the other end of the pool room.
"And no running on wet tiles!"
He is a moron. He is a total fucking moron. He is a moron who is going to stay alive and it's as unbelievable as finding a winning number on his lottery ticket.
"You owe me dinner!" she yells back, just before she shoulders the fire door open -- he was right, no alarm.
"I owe you jack shit, you crazy psychopath, you owe me!"
She's long gone, of course, and then there's the cops jogging in with guns out and looking grim as hell, oh man, the victim probably tracked blood everywhere.
When they tell him to let go of the mop, he does just that, and then he sits right here on the ground, and he gives himself a pass for the massive case of the shakes he just came down with.
--
By the time he's done answering questions and cleaning up -- at least the blood, holy baby Jesus, and the pool will be gross forever and oh, hey, guess they're closed tomorrow anyway because crime scene now -- it's so late he's better off waiting a half hour for his bus to start running again.
He falls asleep at the bus stop and misses the bus, of fucking course.
it was kinda for nano though and i haven't revised it to trim it down or fix stuff, fair warning.
--
Scene: a dock at night. In the distance lights glitter off skyscrapers; the sky is that murky light-pollution orange as far as the eye can see. The water is a weary spill of ink in the dark; you know it's here because you hear it lapping half-assed at the pier. Might as well be a black hole.
On the pier there's black where there shouldn't be. You zoom in. Dead dog? A seal? Fibers -- an abandoned fishing net?
It's a mass of human hair, still wet, locks long as a man is tall. The ends look haphazardly hacked through.
Hidden underneath is a dead body, fingers clenched in the hair, belly a mass of black-looking blood and exposed organs.
The camera flinches and turns to the land, follows the streets behind the docks. People -- rare at first, and then many, walking in pairs of groups and laughing. Sitting in restaurants. Spilling out of cinemas. Some of them have cat ears that twitch, eye-shadow that glows; a tough-looking guy struts down the street with his arms bare, ending in thick bear paws.
You zoom in again and there's a woman, standing with her back to you, hair cut short and bristly and black, fists on her hips. She's in a man's too-large, stained work pants and a T-shirt with the bottom torn off. Her feet are stuffed into fisherman boots.
The camera circles.
She's grinning, lit up by flickering advertisement boards. Someone passing by calls out something about the cool dental work she's sporting.
She looks rather like a shark.
Cue title screen.
--
--
The front wheel of his trolley is stuck again. Puta madre. He hauls it back a few steps, and hip-checks it forward. Squeak, squeak, clang. Ow. It catches, but it deigns to move again, and nothing fell off.
The men's shower room looks bleak and disgusting in this light, the tiles frozen and impersonal. Ezekiel hasn't been to a pool since he was nine; school trip. He can't imagine wanting to go again, now. He starts in on his routine. Check for forgotten shit in the stalls -- two shampoo bottles, a lone flip-flop, a meager hoard today. He lets the doors bang closed when he lets them go. The first and third ones whine -- need oiled, one of these days.
He empties the trash (picks up trash that missed the bin somehow,) cleans the sinks (clumps of hair, dried hair products), the mirrors (greasy, smeared hand prints, some more hair products.)
He mops up the first stall. The new graffiti is pretty uninspired. (If he had a felt pen on him he'd fix the spelling.) The hinges whine when he lets the door go.
Sounds kind of like a hurt cat.
He pushes the door of the second stall open, which shouldn't skree all high-pitched and...
... someone's sobbing, the terrified kind. It rings weird in empty, high-ceilinged rooms but it's not, he's not mistaking it, he can't.
The building should be empty, godfuckingdamnit, those asshole life guards are supposed to make sure. Then again, might be drunk kids who found a way in somehow, the fire escape door's alarm could be fucked again. Hell, mages have to be kids at some point in their lives.
Might be -- might be a guy and a girl, and she thought it would be fun, and it wasn't.
He fingers his cell phone. He's almost out of minutes and has no money to pay for more, and he hasn't even seen anything yet, and he ... promised his mom when he started working nights that if he started sounding like the guy who gets killed in the first five minutes of a movie he would, well, he would stop being a fucking moron.
He calls the cops. Public pool, disturbance, he thinks there might be an intruder. Yeah, sure, he'll stay back and not get involved. He has no plan of doing that. He is waiting for the patrol car. He is so waiting for the patrol car. His madre didn't raise no idiot son.
Not about survival, at least.
A hippo divebombs in the children's pool.
He sneaks through the corridor, to the edge of the door to the pool area -- the door is saloon style, swinging, and when he crouches low against the wall -- his heart is crawling up his throat, beating a drum in his temples -- he can look through the space underneath.
Half in the wading area, someone is fighting to drag themselves out. Their nails slide on the tiles, catch in the gouts and yank painfully free, they're whimpering, no, please, I'm sorry, please. On top of them is --
It looks like a person. In the dim light, it does.
It's splattered with dark wetness, there are dark clouds in the water and its teeth are --
"Jesucristo!" The head of the mop misses the assailant on the first pass -- he was facing them, it saw him coming -- he swings again, two-handed grip. He's screaming. "Back off! Back the fuck off! Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos--"
Where's his cross, where's his fucking cross, but he needs both hands for the mop, it's retreating into the pool out of mop reach, it's watching him, are its eyes black all the way through oh fucking hell, he hates vampires so much, hates them, they're gross, they're wrong--
"Run!" he screams at the victim, and then he glances down and huh, wow, the asshole has long since clambered out of the pool and is running for the doors and.
Oh. Shit. He's alone.
That motherfucker actually ran for it. Jesús María José. He knew he told him to but that son of a bitch could have hesitated!
There is no fucking way he can outrun a vampire, no matter if they'll have to get out of the pool first.
The other -- dude? Yeah, the victim was a dude -- doesn't matter if they can't outrun a vampire either, they just have to outrun Ezekiel, right?
His mom is the only person in the world who will miss him. He can feel the guilt trip all the way from the future.
He doesn't want to die. It's not fair. Like life hasn't shat on him enough already. How dare that fucking asshole come hunting in his place of employment?
It moves in the water some -- must be crouching, the pool isn't that deep -- and he lifts the mop threateningly.
"Oooh, no, you fucking don't, your maw is dripping blood everyfuckingwhere, you are not tracking that on my floors! I'm going to have to clean the filters already, shit, this is a major health hazard, was that cabrón sick with anything or what?"
It rises out of the water -- thigh up, huh, it's not tall, and it's a girl -- young woman, whatever -- and her face is triangular and kitten-cute and her eyes have those ridiculous too-thick-not-to-be-fake lashes, little glittery decoration are stuck to her face, plastic gems or cheap glamour or whatever.
She grins at him from ear to ear. Her teeth are rows of serrated arrowheads.
"Do you think you're fucking scaring me with that bullshit?! Puta, I've faced down werewolves with jaws long like your forearm, I could have put my head in there, your mouth could barely fit a dick!"
He pauses to breathe. His brain decides to take the occasion to reboot, in fits and starts.
"...Not that it'd be a smart thing to do, no way on Earth the dude wouldn't lose it." Oh god. "You're -- not a vampire. Are you."
She shrugs. Her shoulders are bare; she's wearing some kind of sportsy swimming tanktop, up her neck and encasing her chest down to a little under her breasts. The flesh looks weird along her ribs, like the shadows there are too deep when she isn't that starved-looking anywhere else.
"Oh."
If she's not a vampire, all the crosses and prayers of the world will do exactly jack shit to keep her off his tender neck.
"You wouldn't happen to be a demon. By chance."
Her laugh is low and rusty-edged, her voice sounds lower than his, motherfuck, and at twenty-six his balls have long since dropped, shit fuck hell, the harmonics are wrong, the hair is going up all the way down his neck, the skin between his shoulder blades pulling tighter all on its own.
"Nope. Sorry to disappoint."
"Oh." The mop is getting heavy. He is so not putting it down. "Were-shark?"
She laughs, and starts wading for the nearest edge of the pool, yeah, no. He charges around -- almost slips in, oh god, the adrenaline, he's gonna have such a headache -- threatens her with the mop again.
"You stay right in!"
"Aw, c'mon, bro, my gills are burning, this shit's nasty as hell."
"No!" he shouts, light-headed with fear and furious for being so afraid. "You keep your culo put right here and you wait for the fucking cops like a good man-eating girl!"
"Yeah, um, nope."
She grabs the head of his mop as he's swinging it at his head, and he clings to it hard, oh god, if she yanks it out of his hands he is so fucked, and instead she shoves it into his chest, a nice little jab right in his ribs that makes tears spring in his eyes. When he checks again she's pulling herself out of the pool, all long legs and swimmer's muscles, shit, those are scales.
She did mention gills. The were-shark hypothesis is gaining ground.
So fucked.
"The cops should be here any moment now," he says, and tries to sound more assured than he's feeling, and fails at it completely. He takes a step back, mop held between the two of them pointed right at her chest, like he thinks they're jousting and she'll actually fucking let him shove her back.
"Mnuh, you suck."
Is she pouting? She is. "I suck? I suck? Who's the one who came and bled some maricon all through the pool, do you think a little chlorine is gonna fix that? Do you have any idea how many bags of toxic shit I'm gonna have to haul and how late I'm gonna have to stay to clean up this mess? Is it your back gonna get all out of whack and your sleep--"
"Calm down, snarly. It's just a bit of a splash. Like, barely there." She sighs, puts her little finger in her ear and scratches to get the water out. "You coulda let me kill him first, where's my dinner now?"
He takes another step back, shoulders squared, narrows his eyes in irritated challenge. "Not in me, that's for damn sure."
Is he hearing sirens? Dear lord please make it so he's hearing sirens, and they're coming for him.
She's probably trying to lull him into a false sense of security, but so far it looks like a slow process. He has to keep her talking until the cops come. Yeah. He has to do that.
"What do you eat anyway, can't be blood, you wasted like a liter of it."
He has to keep her talking on any topic but the one that will remind her he has lunch stamped all over him.
"Hm?" She's rounding her spine, pulling her shoulders back, doing something weird with the... gills? on her chest. They flare, it's a bit disturbing that he thinks with more light he could be seeing inside her. "Livers. Best part."
"Livers?" Okay why the fuck not, he's heard weirder. Has he? Probably has. "Like, the meat, or the magic inside them or what?"
She blinks a little. "Huh. Iunno. I ain't any kind of spellcaster."
Ezekiel groans. "You don't know. You don't fucking know what you need to survive. Like, whether it's necessary to your survival. Do you even know if it has to be human livers? 'Cause they do sell that at the supermarket, lil bit of cash and whoa, you get not to be a murderer!"
The shark-girl pouts at him. "You kidding, right, I ain't got hardly any cash, why do I have to be giving it away. That asshole told me he had a big fat wallet in his locker too, when he was bragging about shit." She pauses, blinks her stupid long lashes, and then beams. "Oh hey! I bet he didn't stop by to take it. Score!"
... He just...
Yeah, he's flopping the gross end of the mop right in her face.
"Ewgh, what the heck!"
"You are not robbing anyone in my place of employment, I will make you eat shower stall scum."
Her eyes have gone narrow and glittery with offense, and fuck but they are nothing but black. She doesn't look as heavy as he is, even though she's a bit taller, but he knows a girl who's one-fourth werewolf and she can bench-press a car, that means jack shit. All the hair on his arms and legs stands up.
"No, seriously, think about how that looks! You get away with the money, and no one knows how you got in, the cameras don't catch you, you know what they're gonna think? That I set it the fuck up and I'm in on it, because I'm a bit colored." Okay, he's reaching a bit there -- the guy she attacked will know what truly happened well enough, if nothing else, and if he wanted to get into people's lockers he'd just have to switch to a day shift when they're actually full instead of trying the bear trap honeypot trick in the middle of the night, he's not stupid. "It doesn't even matter if it makes no logical sense, people are not logical and I'm not letting you get me in more trouble, the end."
"You're such a pain," she complains, and it's getting so hard to keep being properly terrified -- now he's only, what, mildly terrified, and a whole lot of incensed.
He'd yell some more, he's sure, only there are footsteps resonating on the tiles behind him, two sets, heavy boots, and he could sit on the floor right here and cry with how relieved he feels.
She pouts -- pouts, fuck's sake -- and then she's turning around and taking right off for the other end of the pool room.
"And no running on wet tiles!"
He is a moron. He is a total fucking moron. He is a moron who is going to stay alive and it's as unbelievable as finding a winning number on his lottery ticket.
"You owe me dinner!" she yells back, just before she shoulders the fire door open -- he was right, no alarm.
"I owe you jack shit, you crazy psychopath, you owe me!"
She's long gone, of course, and then there's the cops jogging in with guns out and looking grim as hell, oh man, the victim probably tracked blood everywhere.
When they tell him to let go of the mop, he does just that, and then he sits right here on the ground, and he gives himself a pass for the massive case of the shakes he just came down with.
--
By the time he's done answering questions and cleaning up -- at least the blood, holy baby Jesus, and the pool will be gross forever and oh, hey, guess they're closed tomorrow anyway because crime scene now -- it's so late he's better off waiting a half hour for his bus to start running again.
He falls asleep at the bus stop and misses the bus, of fucking course.
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(Anonymous) 2013-12-04 05:06 am (UTC)(link)Screw any hints of file numbers, I love this so far. XD!
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tho it'd be funny if she had abrasive shark skin instead, even if it doesn't show up as a warning sign for people to misunderstand and go oh how pretty glitter/is that a fancy tattoo/how cute you're a mermaid d'awww, it might be more thematically appropriate... i must ponder.
thankee!
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he really needs a beer, the poor dude. u.u
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