I found this one in my Livejournal. I wrote it exactly 2 years and 7 days ago. I wanted to play around with possible reasons for Sam's powers. Apparently "Well, he died and then was brought back to life" struck me as a suitable enough answer that I wrote this. I suppose it's a good enough reason. I mean, it stuck, which explains [this piece.]

This is a possible explanation as to how Sam was resurrected. It's probably not the correct one.

You probably don't want to know what price Richard paid, either.

-

Price

They meet in a dusty little café that sits hidden between a cleaner's and a bookstore. It smells tangy, and the waitresses are tired-looking teenagers with chipped nail polish and too much make-up. Richard spies the boy sitting at the back, and as he approaches he holds out his hand and says, "It's nice to meet you."

The black-haired boy smiles and shakes his hand. The boy, Richard notes as they sit down, does not return the greeting.

"Is it true?" Richard blurts out before he can stop himself. It's a question that has been digging into his mind since the boy first contacted him. The boy, at least, doesn't seem surprised by the question; his smile only widens. His eyes are blue, but they're a shade of blue Richard has never seen before—strange and bright, almost glowing.

A waitress stops by their table and glares at them until the boy says, "Cappuccino for both of us, please."

"Yes, thank you," Richard says, even though he hates cappuccino. As soon as the waitress is gone he says, "So is it?"

"Yes, Mr. Gray," the boy says. "I can bring back the dead."

Richard sits and waits for doubt to shoot through his mind. You're crazy, he thinks. You're lying. You're a fucking lunatic. But none of the thoughts ring true. Maybe the boy is crazy—probably is, actually—but Richard finds he believes him. He has to.

Richard digs into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet and takes out the picture of his son. "This is him," Richard says. "He died a year ago."

The boy frowns and looks at the picture. Richard doesn't. His chest aches every time he sees that familiar, bright smile in the photograph. "A year?"

"Is that—is that bad?"

"Of course not," the boy says smoothly. "It's just...." He stops speaking as soon as the waitress comes by with their drinks. Richard sips at his mug and winces. He really hates coffee.

"It's just?" he prompts.

"How much are you willing to pay?" the boy asks.

"Anything. Everything."

The boy raises an eyebrow. "Anything?" he says.

"Yes." He doesn't even hesitate.

The boy grins and leans back in his seat. He takes a long drink from his mug and then says, "I won't."

Richard feels his heart stop. "You won't bring him back?"

"I won't ask you for anything," the boy clarifies. "I'm tempted, though." He laughs, like he's just said something really funny.

"Alright, Mr. Gray," the boy says. He's smiling, and it's a smile that makes Richard uneasy. "This is what we'll do. You will go home. You will get your house ready. Clean up your son's room. Make sure his favorite food is in the fridge. Get him all the toys you never got a chance to give him." The smile becomes softer, kinder. "And in two weeks, you will open the door and your son will be there, alive and well."

Richard closes his eyes. He finds himself believing it. He can see it now, in fact. He'll open the door, and Sam will be there, his eyes bright and his hair tousled, and he'll grin up at Richard and say, "Long day, Dad?" like he never left at all.

When he opens his eyes, the boy's gone. For a moment he wonders if the conversation really happened. Then he sees the empty mug the boy left behind, and he decides, for the sake of his sanity, that it did.

He pays for the coffee and walks out of the café and into the sunlight, which glares down at him, hot and bright. Richard stares up at the sky and realizes that, for he first time in a year, he feels really and truly alive.

Labels: _fiction, c: richard gray, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity

Slice of life, sort of. Methis is just so--practical. I was looking forward to writing an exciting fight scene, but as it happens, Methis is the sort of warrior who wouldn't do well in action movies because he'd kill all his opponents off too fast, and then everyone in the audience would be all what happened? and wishing for a slow-motion replay.

-

Work

Methis hated surprises. As a mercenary, he'd come to understand that they were usually unpleasant.

This surprise was five feet tall, hulking, with four-inch claws that Methis noted only because he had to very suddenly dodge them. He dropped his shoulders and rolled--to the left, because that way he didn't have an arm getting in the way.

It was only in stories that the monsters of the wood would viciously attacking unsuspecting travellers. People didn't make for good prey.

This one, though.

Hm.

The man in the village had blabbered about beast and gray before he died--rather messily, as people tended not to function once their guts were outside of their body. Maybe--this, whatever it was, was it. It certainly seemed beastly enough.

Maybe. It wasn't enough of a definitive answer to make Methis particularly want to kill the thing. He was a mercenary, not the altruistic killer of any poor creature born ugly enough to make humans twitch with suspicion.

Besides, it was injured.

Methis leaned on his spear, studying the thing. Not five feet at all, he gathered, but taller. It hunched like a taller human might. There were ears on what was probably a head, and the mangled stump of what might have been a tail. Methis sniffed, and smelled burnt fur and the faint hint of ceywood.

In the back of his mind, a voice suspiciously like Ise's told him the uses of ceywood: As a ward, against others of harmful intent, if burnt correctly. It was otherwise a poor wood for building, and too kind to fashion into tools or weapons.

Finally, the thing turned around. Methis saw the gray eyes and thought, ah, that is my prey alright, and this time when the creature lunged Methis easily drew back his arm and threw.

Then he dodged, because an object in motion will not suddenly stop just because its eye and brain has been impaled on a well-thrown spear.

There was a thud, heavy and suitably dramatic. Methis brushed the dirt from his pants, rolling his shoulder absently. You had to put everything behind a good throw, and Methis hadn't had time to set his form properly. He'd nearly dislocated his arm. It twinged.

He still wasn't used to fighting with just one arm. It was a bitter thought. Methis turned around and kicked at the creature until it turned around.

He grasped the spear and wriggled it until it finally slid free with a slick, wet sound. Not all of it, though; the tip, and a good foot of wood, was still embedded. Methis lacked the patience to work it free, and the spear was ruined, anyway. A quick glance up told him the sun was getting ready to fall. He'd been hunting the whole day, and now that he was about to return to the village--and to Ise--his body was reminding him that he hadn't eaten.

First, though, he had to see if he could drag this mass of flesh back.

He bent, slid his torso under as if he were preparing to wear the thing like a massive, deformed cloak. Then he hefted, grunting as he took on its weight.

Two hundred pounds at least. Maybe more. Probably more, Methis thought, and staggered slightly.

Because of certain... sacrifices Methis had made, this was not an impossible weight for him to carry. That did not make it pleasant. Methis grunted again as he shrugged, trying to settle the weight of the beast better across his back. Then he set off for the village.

Food, he thought as the sun set. Then Ise. And then he would ask for his payment--2,500 ryun. And they would move on, to find more work.

Labels: _fiction, c: ise, c: methis, verse: etherworld

I'm of the crowd that thinks second person is pretentious... so why am I using it? Huh.

Also, I was aiming for subtle and I think I hit fucking confusing instead.

on bonds, might they be chains

You enter, and it is entirely, breathlessly quiet.

You run your eyes over each facet of the room, and a frown distorts your face. Whatever it is you are expecting, you do not find it.

There is a desk, a window, and a bed. You take one step forward, then two, and then you stop.

Ten years ago (and for a child like you, ten years is a long time), your lady mother called you to her. She gave you a gift--a little person, just one year younger, with blue eyes and dark hair and told him he is yours.

She gave you a person--an entire person, another being, a brain and a body and a beating heart, and it is only now, ten years too late, that you understand the weight of it. Or, if not true understanding, then perhaps a glimmer.

The room is empty, of course. The bed is unmade. There is nothing on the desk, and it is dusty from disuse. There are no books. The window that dominates the east wall is shut.

You leave.

(To be more accurate, you flee. But then, you are a child.)

Labels: _fiction, c: charon fury, c: kit scythe, verse: errerrin

Playing around with a possible plot. Also, I just like exploring the dynamic between Allie, Dark, and Sam.

852 words, of the unedited and unread kind.

thread

The apartment was locked. Sam tried the door once, twice, and then turned to give Dark a pointed look. Dark returned the look with a carefully blank expression that suggested the rolling of eyes without any actual physical movement.

Finally Sam said, "Well?" and Dark did not sigh as he moved forward.

He bent over slightly, and did something that resulted in a metallic, clicking sound. A moment later the door swung open. It would probably never close properly again, but that didn't stop Allie from trying to shut it after the three of them entered.

The first thing Sam said was, "Wow, it's hot."

He moved, without hesitation, through a door. Allie shot Dark a questioning look.

"There was a fire in the area two years ago," Dark explained.

"Ah," Allie said, and followed Sam.

Sam was moving through the bedroom in an unknown, but systematic pattern. His eyes weren't closed, but they gave the impression they should be. Whatever the brunet was seeing, it wasn't anything she would understand. Occasionally he would pick up objects and hold them in his hands, exploring every centimeter with his fingers. As he worked, his frown deepened.

"Well, someone died in here alright," he said.

"Vampire?"

"No," Sam answered her, in a tone that almost suggested disappointment. "Something else. Dark!"

The blond vampire was instantly there. Allie's gaze swept to the side; the corner of her lips turned down. It was the only sign of her surprise that she allowed.

"Okay. So, we have a vampire--tall, maybe eighty kilograms--going through the window." Sam pointed. "He lands, approaches the bed, and gets to our man Rob here. Rob doesn't wake up until the vampire has his mouth on his throat."

Sam kicked the foot of the bed, as if in demonstration.

"That's all pretty normal. What isn't normal is the next part. Rob doesn't die. No, don't ask me how," he said, before Allie could even think of interrupting, before her internal question had even fully solidified, "I don't know. Sometimes miracles happen. He runs through that door, probably bleeding all over his clothes, and out. Then the police find him on the street and, ka-ching, there's an article in the newspaper, people read it, some people get curious, we happen to be curious enough to break into the poor guy's house...."

Sam circled, eyes tracking from the window, to the bed, and then back to the window. It felt suddenly cold.

Sam's heartbeat increased, and he was almost panting. Allie and Dark stood very, very still, as Sam--

expanded.

Allie had never pretended to understand Sam's ability, and Dark's knowledge was based mostly on conjecture. Now, though, they could both feel it, a slight pressure on their skin that grew outwards until it was as if the whole room had filled with static.

Now, it was clear that Sam could--feel, touch, sense the entire room. Allie closed her eyes and shivered. It felt frighteningly intimate.

Sam's eyes landed on her. Then they went back to the bed. "So. Back to our vampire. He mortally wounds Rob, watches the guy go... and something else comes through the window.

"Whatever it is, it doesn't touch the sill, the walls, the floor, or the ceiling. Maybe it's floating. The vampire watches it come near, and it's moving way too fast for him to see it properly. It's just a blur. Then the vampire's too busy dying to care much about keeping his eyes open."

Sam... pushed, and Allie shivered again; so did Dark, this time, though his expression remained the same as always: blank.

"And then... well, I got nothing."

There was a sudden snap, and Sam's presence disappeared, confined to the boundaries of his body. "Wow," he said. "That was useless. We should head back."

Dark said, "How much information can you gather from a corpse?"

Sam looked at him. "A hell of a lot more than objects," he answered finally. "But less than from anything living."

"Then we should track down the vampire's carcass." Without waiting for Sam's agreement, he left the room. Allie followed him, moving quickly to fall into step by his side. She turned to study the older vampire properly. "Why are you so concerned?" she asked finally, tone almost light.

Dark didn't misunderstand. "Anything that can kill a vampire so easily is our concern," he murmured. "After all, we have someone to protect."

"Or you could just be pulling him into something dangerous," Allie retorted, but just as quietly.

Dark said, "Anything is better than the path he's currently chosen."

Allie stopped. "You... that's--if he heard you say that!"

She wasn't angry, but it was an emotion near enough that she felt justified in narrowing her eyes, clenching her fists.

Dark just said, "He is someone to protect." He turned suddenly, ignoring her completely, and said, "Sam, is there anything else to learn from here?"

The dismissal was clear.

Sam looked at them, and shrugged. "I'm gonna try feeling this place out for a bit," he said. "You guys wait outside."

This, at least, was an order Dark obeyed.

Labels: _fiction, c: allison fencer, c: dark, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity

experimentation
(or: she's just nudging them towards the inevitable, really.)


Sam wakes up to Allie's weight across his hips, to her hands on his arms, to her lips against his.

It's. Probably not right that he notices her lips last. But Allie is... well. She's heavy. Vampires generally are. It's not a trait most people expect. Her lips are feather-light, and soft; the rest of her is threatening to break his spine.

He's confused. It's a normal reaction.

She's still kissing him. Sam tries to speak; she runs her tongue inside, instead, over the ridge of his teeth and his bottom lip. Then she straightens, looking thoughtful, and says, "Hm."

"Allie," Sam says, very, very patiently. "Get off me."

She grinds down. Sam doesn't react. He says, "I have a wife. Get off."

"She's dead," Allie reminds him, as if he doesn't know.

"I have a wife," Sam repeats. His concentration coils like a whip; the next moment, it strikes. Sam imagines he can hear the air crack as Allie is thrown across the room. He pulls his anger around him like a cloak; it's unexpectedly cool.

He sits up and looks at Allie; she looks back, one arm pressed across her torso. Her expression is blank; Sam reaches up and touches his lips, feeling the residue of feelings there. He reads curiosity, mostly, and yearning.

As if to confirm his findings, Allie says, "I was curious." She stands. She isn't hurt. She could be pretending, but Sam's too pissed to care if she is or not.

Sam says, "I'm going to have breakfast."

He stands, and walks past her. Allie watches him go, head turning slowly with the motion like an owl's.

She doesn't apologize, and Sam doesn't ask her to.

Labels: _fiction, c: allison fencer, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity

I'm going to get down on my knees and beg forgiveness for not using quotations with dialogue in this one. Except, well, not.

1692 is a reference to the Salem Witch Trials, which was a mess that resulted in a lot of innocents killed or imprisoned because of false accusations, or grudges, or paranoia.

So. This is... Sam adding another member to his harem coven. I have no idea who she is. 834 words, unedited and unbeta'd--I didn't even look through it lawl.

-

breathe, and it comes

They have tied her to a stake. It is a scene from 1692, except that she is not a witch, and they are not killing her based on any wild accusation. They know what she is; and she knows what they are. They are the people gathered around her in a fair number, though there isn't enough to call it a crowd. They are dressed in jeans, sweatpants--dark-colored clothes, so that the stains from previous hunts don't show.

They are annoyed. They want to go home. She is going to die tonight, and they are discussing what show they missed that evening, what they should buy for their kids' birthdays, when can we leave forfuck's sakes, it's past midnight.

Midnight.

She tilts her head up and imagines she can feel the moon, although she knows that, even if they were outside, it would be hidden from her. She would call it neglect, or abandonment, but. But.

But.

She is not trying to free herself from her bonds. As a predator, her foremost attributes are cunning and intelligence. If she attempts escape, the hunters around her will strike, and....

Well. Kill her, perhaps. Disable her. It is a fate that is near-certain; she would rather prevent her impatience from hastening it.

They are going to burn her alive. It is not so bad. She has suffered through worse--berserker rages in the sun, burning outside and inside. Childbirth, long and hard, only to find the child had long been dead inside her.

She is waiting for an opportunity, although it is increasingly likely that there isn't any opportunity to wait for.

Hurry up, one of them says.

Another one, this a bare two meters away, shakes a tired head. No, we're waiting for another one. It makes more sense to burn them together.

What? Another? --Really?

It was a good hunt tonight, comes the reply.

She does not move a single muscle, in the single, expressive way of someone trying very hard not to react. She wants to believe none of them notice, because they are tired.

Another one. They are bringing another one, another one like her. It is, if not a good opportunity, at least an opportunity. Her fingers are curling slightly. Her claws unsheathe themselves. Around her, tension coils thick in the air, waiting and expectant. They fall quiet. They are all waiting, together, she and them, prey and predator.

Then the other one arrives, only it is not the other she expects at all.

It is a human, not a vampire, who steps into the warehouse.

He is looking around. He is not scared. He has a knife, and the blade is dark. His gaze tilts up, and she is startled to find him staring at her. He is ignoring them, the hunters, but perhaps he can because he is human. Perhaps he is one of them.

No. He isn't. He is walking towards her, and although they are parting, creating a path through negative space, it is not a gesture of submission. They are drawing guns, the glint of metal dull in the vacant light of the warehouse. She can sense the tilt of their thoughts, although they are unvoiced: What the fuck is he doing here, and who is he, and is he a complete nutcase?

Sorry I came so late.

He is speaking to her. Or at least, he is looking at her, and his mouth moves while he looks, and words come out. There is intent directed at her. But the words die out, and make no sense.

She is curling her fingers again, slowly, and she realizes the true reason she has not acted: She is injured.

She does not feel injured. She feels no pain. But she is injured. The thought is unfolding itself in her mind, new and wondrous, and she thinks, ah.

Sorry I came so late. But I'm going to rescue you now.

Coupled with the extra sentence, his words are making more sense. But. She is still confused. And now, she is watching; the blade of the knife presses against her bonds, and then stops, because the human has a gun pointed at his skull, pressing into his hair.

I'm sure none of us want the mess of your brains blown out all over the floor, says one of them, and then, like an afterthought: Motherfucker.

And then, smooth like silk, a voice she knows, because it is the voice all of them have: I wouldn't touch him if I were you.

Her gaze is moving, from the human to the door, and standing there are two others.

And then the human says, Well, actually, I have a condition. As if there is no gun pressing itself against the back of his head, as if they are not surrounded by them, by hunters, all of them palming guns.

He is smiling.

She says, I accept, because she does not care to wait for an explanation. She was expecting an opportunity; this is an opportunity.

They are not going to burn her alive, because the human says, Okay, and his knife slides through her bonds, and then everything erupts into motion.

Labels: _fiction, c: allison fencer, c: dark, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity

How Allie and Sam meet. 606 words.

-

"And what will you be having?" the girl says, and she looks, sounds, so completely natural that Sam almost doubts himself. Almost.

She's good. He'll grant her that. Her hair is messy, and she looks ridiculous in the hat. But her smile isn't right, not for a girl working the fast-food track; there's a certain line to the way she moves, a tilt to her voice that is slightly too flat. She's too put-together, like a model posing in a magazine or an actress playing a role.

Still. She's good. Sam wonders what she is, if she's even anything he--or anyone--can shove into a neat, black-white label.

She isn't feral, and she isn't a ghoul. Socks was a ghoul, and the girl in front of him isn't exhibiting any of the signs. Sam wonders where she gets her blood from.

He glances around, making sure noone's near enough to hear. He doesn't bother being discreet. Then he leans forward, elbows on a counter slippery with who-knows-what, and says: "So what's a vampire doing busting her ass off in a place like this?"

She smiles at him. "So, a medium Coke and a cheeseburger?" she says.

"Sprite, actually," Sam says. Her smile widens, and shows teeth.

Sam says, "Thanks," and opens his wallet. She gives him his food.

Thirty minutes later she's sitting across from him. She's taken the hat off, which is bad, or maybe good, because it makes her look slightly less ridiculous and it reminds Sam of what she is. She's a blonde, and attractive. She has a pink bracelet on.

Sam has already finished his meal, and gone for a refill four times, and went to the bathroom twice. He's probably going to feel off tonight, from drinking so much soda.

"I don't see many of you guys around here," Sam says. He puts his cup between them, like a shield, as if plastic and paper could ever stop a vampire.

"No," the vampire says. She's still playing the teenaged girl, and slouching like a pro.

Sam tells her his address. "Come any time," he says. "But make sure I'm there. Dark's kind of territorial, and he's probably older than you."

"... Why?" the girl says.

Sam grins at her. "I'm... gathering a coven. Sort of."

"You're a human," she says. "Humans can't rule."

"Yeah, I'm a bit young, huh?" Sam says, as if the issue is age. "That's why I said sort of."

"You're scared," she returns. "Your heart is beating faster than normal. And you're sweating. Your breathing is too controlled. And the skin below your eyes is twitching."

"Uh," Sam says, "I knew I was scared already. No need to give me a report. Seriously, though," he adds. "Come any time."

The girl straightens. She's forgotten herself. When Sam stands up, he finds himself looking down at a predator. He forces himself to smile. "See you," he says.

He leaves.

He's entirely, entirely unsurprised to find Dark waiting for him outside, because the guy is an obsessive, paranoid freak. He's smoking. Dark will never admit that he smokes when stressed.

"She'll come," Sam says in reply to Dark's unspoken question. Dark walks with him, and, side-by-side, they make their way to Sam's car.

"That makes three," Dark says. "It's hardly a coven."

Sam laughs. "It's enough, for now. Minimum of three, am I right?" He reaches into his pocket, curls his fingers around the receipt he feels there. He touches the flimsy paper and feels traces of the girl still lingering. Vampires feel different from humans, the taste and color of their thoughts different--cooler, and less chaotic. They burn less.

Sam smiles. "She'll come," he says, again.

Dark nods, and follows his lead.

Labels: _fiction, c: allison fencer, c: dark, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity

It's a throw-away life

It's a Friday. Sam is grading papers, making clicking sounds every time a student makes a mistake. Sometimes he'll read out the more notable mistakes: "Hey, this kid spelled chlamydia with a k! I should give him points for the reference. I hope it was a reference." Mostly, though, he's quiet, even if Sam does 'quiet' differently than everybody else. Occasionally, his chair squeaks across the tile whenever he shifts. Sam is never comfortable when he's grading.

Dark sits on the other side of the table, and he isn't drawing, although he's holding a pencil. The paper in front of him is 11.7 by 16.5 inches of blank space.

Allie has her cosmetics in front of her; she has to leave for work soon. With the right kind of make-up, she can pass for human. Maybe it's her clothes, too: people don't think killers come in bright pink. She has her compact open, a single finger on a curved lip of plastic, but she's still.

Dark knows what she's listening to, because he is as well: The beat of Sam's heart. It's steady, steady, steady, and if he moves his hand, pushes it across the table, he could press his fingers against Sam's neck, wrist, heart, and feel that heartbeat under his skin--

There's the snap of the compact. Allie ties her hair back; she's barely remembering to throw in lots of extra movement, so that the action looks natural and clumsily human. She smacks her lips together, exaggerated. "Okay, I'm going," she says.

Sam looks up, focuses his expression on her. Dark grips his pencil; it bends.

"Don't do anything stupid," he says, and then, absurdly: "Stay safe."

Allie smiles at him. She leans forward. This is all vampire--smooth, graceful motion, her torso tilted at an angle no human could hope to suspend without extensive training. She presses her lip against Sam's cheek. It's a split-second touch, because Dark is present, and leaves a smear of pink.

"Sure," Allie says. She straightens, and suddenly she's a teenage girl, off to stand all night in the ordering booth of a 24-hour fast-food restaurant.

Dark waits until they're alone. Then he puts down the pencil and gives Sam a long, measured look, but the man is back to his papers, and his students. "You should be more careful around her," he says.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Train isn't spelled T-R-A-N-E, is it?" he says, and red ink flashes across the page. With his other hand, he reaches into his jacket. He pulls put a knife--the knife, the one Dark gifted him with. It lies between them, fenced in by blank sketching paper and student essays.

"I'm always careful," Sam says, and then: "Shit, you know what, I'm just going to take fifty points off these dumb unnamed papers."

Dark says, "I see." He picks his pencil up again, and begins to sketch.

Labels: _fiction, c: allison fencer, c: dark, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity

Prompt: fire in the warehouse

Liam awoke to the thick smell of smoke and heat heavy against his skin. He registered the dry crackle of flames even as he jerked his body up, rolled over, and shook Code’s shoulders. "Wake up," he said. "Wake up!" he repeated, but Code didn’t move or open his eyes.

Liam was strong, but Code was bigger than him. It was awkward carrying the younger boy. In the end he threw Code over his shoulders like an oversized sack.

He left their bags behind.

The fire was a strangely quiet enemy; by now it had swallowed one wall, and the windows were blocked. It stretched, orange-yellow-blue, from floor to ceiling. There were no exits so Liam made one, drawing back and kicking. The wall crumpled like foil under the force of his kick; behind him, the fire guttered at the sudden onslaught of air, engorging.

Liam didn’t put Code down until he couldn’t hear the fire’s grabbing hisses. Then he was abruptly aware of the dull, aching exhaustion in his limbs, the way his chest heaved from panic. Code was stirring.

"Put me down," he mumbled, the words chasing each other, awkward and stumbling. Liam did. Code grunted as he hit the ground.

Code put his palms against his eyes, as if he had to stop his eyeballs from falling out. "Someone started that fire," he said, slowly, and even then Liam had to think for a moment, separating the slurred sounds into proper words.

"Yeah," he said, because he didn’t think warehouses could spontaneously combust. "But we’re out."

"The bags…" Code started, then stopped, shaking his head. "It doesn’t matter."

At least he was starting to sound coherent.

"Thanks for saving me," Code said.

Liam just looked back over his shoulder. His breath was calming; the world was dulling again, his senses no longer buoyed by panic and fear. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he didn’t.

Labels: _fiction, c: code, c: liam, verse: boneyards

Why do I like writing from Code's point of view so much? Huh. Anyway, 459 words. Companion pieces are Finding, Yesterday's Child, and Purpose. This one is the only one to feature the boneyards the verse is named for, though.

Code is one of the most depressingly practical characters I've ever created.

Risk

He was warm--hot--there were hands on him, soft, a woman whispering soothing words into his ear. And then the cold rushed in, chasing away the dream, and he opened his eyes and saw morning.

Code shifted. There were bones digging into his back; fragments drew red patterns on his left arm. Above, the ribs they'd slept against cast striped shadows onto the ground. The boneyard was utterly silent. Code touched the black sheet that covered Liam. When he felt the slight stirs of movement, the rise-and-fall of a thin chest, he withdrew his hand.

It felt--stupid--checking to see if Liam was still alive every time he woke up, but he still did it. It made Code feel better.

He checked their bag. There was a bottle of water, mostly clean. There were cigarettes, but they were Elle's, and untouched. He tried to picture her--wherever she was, traveling and searching, without her customary cigarettes. It didn't fit.

There was an extra blanket, but no food.

Today, his arm hurt. Code pressed it against his chest and flexed the thin fingers. He would need to hunt. He would have to leave Liam alone. It was a necessary risk.

He'd left his mother alone, once, and when he'd come back he'd found her gone, with blood on the ground, his little sister hidden in a place no babe should ever be--half-buried under the sand, her scent masked by mushrooms.

But he needed to hunt. It was a necessary risk.

He'd left his sister alone--not just once, but twice, and thrice, and many more times after that. He learned which scents drove predators away, that movement attracted attention, that the wind was as much enemy as friend.

Liam wasn't his sister. And it was a necessary risk.

Code leaned forward. "Liam," he said. "Liam, I have to go. I'll be back."

Liam didn't answer. Code thought he heard a slight hitch in his breathing. He was probably wrong. He drew the blanket tightly over the man, covering him completely, and hid the dark color as best he could under old bone and fragments sharp against his skin. He thought he understood Elle's need for cigarettes.

He stood. His footsteps broke the deep silence. The shadows on the ground had shifted slightly, warming slightly as the morning grew older. Code wrapped his fingers around Wyndham's knife. He didn't think about Liam. He thought about traps without bait, about insects in hidden nests, about worms and chrysalises. The morning was still cold, and he thought briefly, irrationally, of Ilsa, but then the wind brushed against him and he raised his head and smiled as he registered the tangy sweetness.

It was morning, and his arm had stopped aching.

Labels: _fiction, c: code, c: elle, c: liam, verse: boneyards

I've actually been writing, um, a lot these past few months. But I haven't actually been finishing anything. Yes, I fail.

Below is something I might finish up for the lit-mag. |:

-

in a name

--are her last words. Then the world spins wildly; Mire spends the last two dozen seconds of her life as a decapitated head. She dies with her eyes still open.

There is a brief moment of disconnect. When Mire stands up again, she is a spirit. The crowd is a roaring, screaming creature, thrown into blissfully wild glee because of her death. The sun is low enough that the shadows spread themselves long and thin over the arena stage. Mire's body is lying on its side, arms loosely folded against the chest, the knees bent and the ankles crossed.

Mire-the-spirit steps over it dispassionately and watches as her opponent hoists her former head high above him. He stands as still and quiet as Mire's recently vacated body, the furor of the crowd washing thick and viscous over him. He wears the victory like a cloak as he strides out of the arena, the head of Mire's body still swinging from one hand. Later it will be displayed in front of one of the arena's main entrances. Her body will be used as bait for starved animals, and the crowd will cheer as loud as they do now.

There is a place where all spirits go, located at the center of all the worlds. It has a thousand-thousand names in as many tongues. Mire opens her mouth, tries to form the shape of it in her own language. When she cannot, she realizes it is because she has forgotten.

Because it has no name, it does not exist to her. Therefore she cannot go. But there is a name she remembers, burned fresh into her mind like a firebrand. Mire turns and walks. She passes through the iron grill that separates the arena from its underworld, into the tunnels that hold starving beasts and desperate gladiators and broken slaves.

And, as well, the man who killed her.

Labels: _fiction, c: methis, verse: etherworld

I... have this weird, uh, thing where I start feeling itchy when I don't update Syndication. I've got no idea why, I'm realistic: this blog is really for me, to force me to be productive because creativity's a muscle you have to exercise just like any other. But, well, whatever. I just don't like not posting.

So here's a story I wrote last year. It's... different. There's no sex, no violence, no death, and no drugs. But, it's, well... weird. Yeah.

wishes (keep walking backwards and you’ll find the other side)

Allie stands on her balcony, watching the highway next to her apartment building.

That morning she took Mom’s favorite vase, the white-and-blue one from China, and put it right in the middle of the highway. It’s an interesting experiment. She likes the way cars avoid it. The vase looks oddly magnificent, not fragile at all. It’s a circle of color against the dark gray of the road.

The vase is a gift from Michael, who Allie called Dad until she was seven and her parents decided to tear her world apart. Gifts from Michael are common. Only last week he sent her a gorgeous necklace, silver, with a beautiful aquamarine. Allie had called him as soon as she received it. “You got my birthstone wrong," she told him. “It’s diamond, not aquamarine."

The best part was, he had believed her. Allie is expecting another gorgeous, silver, diamond necklace soon. She plans to give it to the bearded, homeless man that lives on the side of the highway.

That’s later, though. Right now, Allie is waiting for something to happen, because watching cars avoid Mom’s favorite vase isn’t fun anymore. And then, as if a wish-granter were listening to her thoughts, something does happen: a red car stops right in front of the vase, right there in the middle of the highway. A person steps out and picks up the vase. Then he looks around. He’s confused, maybe. It’s funny.

Except that he looks straight up and sees Allie, even though she lives all the way up on floor 23A. And--impossibly--their gazes meet. She can clearly see his eyes.

They’re gorgeous.

They make her think of the diamond necklace Michael is sure to send her, bright and captivating.

The single moment stretches on. And then Allie feels a sting, like a rubber band was just fired at her skin. The man is getting back into his car. Allie thinks she’s just fallen in love.

-

-

-

When Allie was younger, and Michael had still been Dad, they would sit outside on the balcony every night, and they would tell each other stories. Most were ridiculous, and they fought to come up with the wildest, most improbable situations: boy-birds who saved worlds; monkeys that made an elephant cry; a little deer that became a king’s advisor.

But the stories about the wish-granters were what Allie loved best. Michael would talk in a low, soothing voice, so that when Allie closed her eyes she was convinced she wasn’t on Earth anymore, but in a fantastical world where wishes floated softly like balloons and wish-granters picked the very best ones to come true. And afterwards she always asked, "Would they pick mine?" and Michael laughed and hugged her and told her yes, of course they would, her wishes were as beautiful as she was.

-

-

-

That night, the doorbell rings during dinner. Mom gets up with a heavy sigh so she can answer it, looking irritable. Allie feels sorry for whoever it is that’s visiting.

A foreign voice says, "Excuse me--" at the exact moment Mom says, "That vase--!"

Allie scrapes her chair back. It’s the man from before, and he’s holding Mom’s vase out, an apologetic expression on his face. "My name is Sam," he begins awkwardly. "I think this belongs to you?"

Mom is amazed. Allie is, too, because she’s just been saved from a month of being grounded. But Mom pointedly doesn’t invite Sam in, which is just rude, so Allie jumps up and runs after him as he’s leaving, ignoring Mom’s protests. "How did you know I live here?" she demands, catching his sleeve.

Sam stops walking and smiles at her. He’s got amazing black hair and amazing white teeth, although his clothes are not-so-amazing. "I just asked the vase," he says, and Allie decides right then that this man she’s definitely in love with is magical.

"Give me your phone number," she demands.

He looks thoughtful. "Your mom wouldn’t like that," he points out.

Allie doesn’t care. She just pulls out her phone, and Sam laughs and gives her his number. "Don’t tell your mom," he says.

"It’s our secret," she says, looking at him with wide, innocent eyes. When he leaves she watches him go, clutching her phone tightly.

But when she gets back Mom is frowning. She was obviously watching from the door. She doesn’t say anything about Sam, though, just tells Allie to please do the dishes. Allie doesn’t. Instead she pulls out every vegetable they have in the fridge and systematically chops them all up into slices and squares. Then she sits down on the tiled kitchen floor and arranges them into a face right in front of the door. Maybe Mom will trip on it when she comes in tomorrow morning.

The carrots become skin, and the cabbages and lettuce become eyes and hair. The broccoli Allie arranges into a neat, circular border around the face.

She takes a picture of the face with her phone and sends it to Sam.

The reply is immediate: If you don’t clean that up, she’s going to sprain her ankle.

Allie is delighted. She doesn’t clean it up.

-

Allie finds the door the next afternoon.

It’s an ordinary-looking door, plain and wooden. Except it’s floating two inches above the ground, frameless.

They’ve just come back from the doctor. Mom didn’t say a word the whole trip, just pursed her lips and gave Allie tired looks. Mom just now limped to her room, favoring her right foot and announcing that she was going to take a quick nap. "I hope you sleep forever," Allie had said. She’d thought the whole situation was funny until Mom started the silent treatment, which is elementary and immature and anyway, who’s supposed to be the adult, huh?

The door floats on the balcony as if it’s always been there. Allie tries to open it, but it’s locked.

After a moment, she decides to call Sam. "I’m at work," he tells her. She likes that he picked up anyway.

"I’m on holiday," she says cheerfully. "Where does the door lead to?"

There’s a pause. "That depends," he says finally, "on where you want to go."

The fear she feels at his words is completely unexpected.

"But I don’t want to go anywhere right now," she replies, unsure.

"You do," he assures her, but his words aren’t comforting at all. It’s not that she just doesn’t want to go anywhere; it’s more like she doesn’t want to want to go anywhere. It feels like escaping.

She wants to ask him something, like, Go out with me tonight, but when she looks at the phone she realizes that he’s already hung up. She doesn’t redial his number, though, just steps back inside and slides the balcony doors closed. Then she locks it. When she looks through the glass she can see that magical, mysterious door. She’s angry. It’s a good gift, but it’s not what she wants. And anyway, her balcony is her sanctuary. Sanctuaries aren’t supposed to change. Whenever they do, worlds fall apart.

She slips her phone back into her pocket and goes into the kitchen to clean up the mess Mom made on the floor.

-

The doorbell rings as soon as the sun sets. Allie is forced to open it because Mom hasn’t woken up yet. She’s entirely unsurprised to find Sam standing outside. He’s better dressed this time, in a dark red shirt and black jeans. His eyes are as beautiful as always.

He has a box in his hands. It’s long, thin, and black, with an elegant, silver ribbon. When he gives it to her he does it with both hands, lending the process a strange feeling of formal unreality. Allie takes the box and says, "It’s a diamond necklace, isn’t it?"

He grins. "How did you know?" he asks.

Allie doesn’t reply. She’s crying, and it makes her feel unbelievably stupid. Who cries when guys give them diamond necklaces? But she can’t help it; the tears keep coming, and her chest keeps heaving.

He slips a hand under her chin and gently turns her face up. "What’s wrong?" he asks, and his voice is perfectly gentle.

"You’re amazing," she tells him. "You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met." Only the words come out garbled because she’s crying. He seems to understand, anyway, and gives her a small, sad smile. He doesn’t bother with hugging her or saying meaningless words of comfort. Instead he takes the necklace out of the box and fastens it gently around her neck.

Then he steps back, appraising her. "You look beautiful," he says finally. And she believes him, believes him completely and totally, even though she knows her nose is blotchy and her eyes are red. It’s just the way he says it--like it’s the truth just because he says so.

-

They go out.

Sam takes her to a park. It’s small and secluded, hidden behind a series of buildings forever under construction. Allie toes off her shoes and walks barefoot through the grass, which is damp and green. Overhead the sky is a dark gray-blue.

As usual, she can’t see the stars, but the city-lights are dazzling.

Sam trails behind, looking relaxed. He’s magical but he’s still just a man, and he keeps reaching up to shove his hair back and out of his face. Here the light reflects perfectly off his eyes. They look like they’re glowing.

Allie takes his hand. "Thank you," she tells him, and smiles.

Sam looks down at her necklace. "Of course," he says.

Allie turns her head and watches the glitter of the city lights through the foliage. Like this they look like stars.

Minutes pass by, filled with silence as warm as the night’s wind. And when the moment ends, and the sounds of traffic sneak back into the background as if they’d never gone, Allie suddenly realizes that she has made a decision. "Let’s go back," she says, and Sam nods.

Back in the car, he turns and presses his lips to hers. It’s a quick kiss, but sweet. Then Sam starts up the car. Allie wonders if the kiss is just another gift or maybe something more.

As they drive back, they pass by the homeless man. He’s walking right by the highway, as usual.

Allie doesn’t want to give him the necklace.

-

As soon as they step through the front door, Allie walks straight to the balcony, sliding the glass open and stepping through. The door is still there, floating. When she presses her palm against the wood she finds that it’s warm.

She turns her head. "If I open this door," she asks Sam, "what will I find?"

He puts his hands in his pockets and looks thoughtful. "Why don’t you tell me?" he says.

She doesn’t reply for a while, just turns and stares at the door. And, unbidden, a memory comes to her: Of a soft, gentle voice, and stars overhead, and a dad who is still a dad no matter what she calls him.

Her hand moves.

But just as she’s turning the handle, she feels Sam’s hand on her shoulder, and his breath against her ear. "Tell me," he says. It sounds like a plea. As if he’s scared. "Before you open that door, tell me what you’ll find."

"Dad," she replies. "I’ll find Dad. I’ll find--"

--She’ll be seven years old. Dad will still be Dad, and Mom will smile at her like she used to, before years of mean pranks wore her down. The night will be perfect, and the balcony will still be a sanctuary. And as they nurse mugs of hot chocolate that Mom made for them, Dad will turn and look at her and say, "Imagine--"

--The doorhandle feels ice-cold under her skin. Or maybe she’s the one that’s turned cold.

The weight on her shoulder reminds her that Sam is waiting for an answer.

"If I open this door," she tells Sam, "I’ll find my wish. The wish I made when I was seven years old."

She has already made her decision. Now she acts on it, and tears her world apart again.

-

-

-

Allie loves nights like this.

"Imagine," Dad is saying, "a world filled with nothing but sky. In this world, there is no ground, and the sky is limitless. And in this infinity float people’s wishes."

"Like balloons," Allie says.

"Yes," Dad says. "Like balloons."

"And the wish-granters?" she asks.

"Well, they catch them. Because normally wishes float just out of reach. So the wish-granters catch people’s wishes for them."

"What if they don’t?"

Dad smiles. He makes her wait before he answers, taking a long, generous sip of his hot chocolate. It’s as perfect as always. Mom makes the best hot chocolate.

"Sometimes, it’s actually better if they don’t," Dad tells her, in that low voice that means he’s telling an absolute secret.

"Why not?" she whispers back.

"Because wishes aren’t all good," he says.

And Allie turns her head, because she thinks she sees something out of the corners of her eyes: the very lightest outline of a rectangle, and the glint of something like diamonds.

She decides she doesn’t like Dad’s answer. It can’t be true. "What about mine?" she asks. "Would they pick mine?"

He laughs and puts his mug down so he can hug her. "Of course they would," he says. "Your wishes are as beautiful as you are."

She hugs him tightly back.

-

The next day, Allie finds the door.

At first she thinks the door is small. Then she figures out that no, it’s not small. It’s the perfect height for a seven-year-old; when she reaches out for the doorhandle, she finds she doesn’t have to stretch up to reach it, like she normally does. She’s delighted. It’s plain and wooden and perfect.

She opens the door.

When she steps through, she finds nothing but limitless sky on the other side, with no ground below.

-

In an apartment in floor 23A, a man named Michael peacefully sleeps, unaware that when he wakes up, there will be no daughter to tell news of the impending divorce to.

Labels: _fiction, verse: misc.

He was trapped, pinned under the crushing weight of what felt like tons of rock. Not that that was a logical estimation, obviously: as far as Gage could feel, his bones were broken, not crushed. But then the pain was clouding his mind, stripping away reason and logic and relacing it with a feeling of cold, damning terror.

Gage had never felt fear before. He suddenly understood why lesser people might allow it to rule their lives.

He couldn’t see. His eyes hurt. Possibly these two facts were related somehow.

Gage realized that he could still move his hand—even his head, if he didn’t mind the stabs of agony that shot through his neck when he tried to turn it. Carefully, he reached out: there was rock above him and uneven ground below him.

His hand encountered a toe.

Gage paused and drew in a labored breath in sharp, biting surprise. A toe? Yes—attached to a foot—

And then someone spoke.

“I don’t believe you’re still alive.”

It was a male voice, maybe that of an older child. Gage sensed idle amusement.

He tried to turn his head, tried to see, but his body refused to respond. And he realized suddenly that his hand wasn’t obeying him anymore, either; when he tried to move it, his fingers just curled weakly, useless.

“Not for long, though,” the person said in a voice suddenly distant. “Hey, Gage, I bet you don’t want to die, right?”

How do you know my name? Gage thought, and his fingers twitched. Suddenly a warm hand was covering it. It was oddly comforting, except that, buried under thick layers of fear and pain and numbness, there was another thread of feeling—dread, anticipation, something, a feeling that scrabbled at the edges of his mind and told him to run—

“This is probably going to hurt,” the voice said.

It did.

Labels: _fiction, verse: misc.

Maybe Never

In the cities, the widows get letters, or young met in uniform standing at their door with still hands and somber gazes. In the most distant villages, no one bothers with mail, and the roads are too twisted and sparse for travel.

The men stumble back home maybe three, four weeks after news of the war's end has reached their quiet hamlet, tucked securely against the wall of the valley like a child. The women appear at the windows, eyes frantic, their bodies tense. Some of them come out onto the street. It's Pareira who shatters the tight atmosphere: She screams, trips out the door. A year of suppressed worrying shows itself in incoherent words, and she reaches out, out, out. Her husband reaches back. His gaze is dead and he's limping, but something in his face changes when he sees her. They have a messy, loud reunion right there on the street.

Ydell watches from her door. The men drift apart, puppets pulled apart by strings that lead to homes. It takes ten, fifteen minutes for the street to empty, until only Pareira and her husband is left. She's having hysterics; so is he, but quietly, silent, like the war has ripped away his voice. They used to be so alike, Ydell muses, as she steps back and closes the door.

Ydell is not the only woman to receive no husband. She is, however, the only one to retreat quickly into her small home; the others stand, faces turned towards the street, expressions blank of all but dying hope.

Ydell closes the windows firmly, to shut out Pareira and her husband. There are candles, stacked neatly in the back, but she does not reach for them. Instead, she sits in one of the two chairs by the crooked table, and turns her face towards the door. Maybe tomorrow, Ydell thinks, diplomatically. And: Maybe next week, or next month, or next year. She is a patient woman.

Labels: _fiction, verse: etherworld

Just wanted to convey an idea. Chronogically, it takes place after Finding. 162 words.

Purpose

After the third time he caught Code trying to struggle out of the shelter, the man just threw up his hands and said, "Fine, I'll fucking carry you."

He had surprising stamina, and he didn't complain at all. Code mumbled an apology into the man's hair, which was as rough and coarse as the backlands surrounding them.

The man grunted. "Why are you out here, anyway? There's nothing here."

"I'm searching for the old cities," he said.

"Why? They were the first hit by the Darkening, weren't they? They're empty."

"Yes. But it's been twenty years. It should have lifted by now."

The man grunted interrogation.

"It's something my mother told me," Code said finally, and hated the doubt that seeped into his tone at the words. "The Darkening is a cycle, and it's mobile. It never stays in the same place for very long."

The man laughed, the sound touched by bitterness. "You talk like it's alive."

"It is," Code said, simply.

Labels: _fiction, c: code, c: liam, verse: boneyards

Set before Finding. Sort of a prequel, except not really. I just like messing with Code, I guess.

Another vomit-the-idea-out-as-quickly-as-possible-before-it-goes-away sort of thing. So uh, yeah, it's really rough and unedited. Also there's a fair bit of info-dumping and world-building. Sorry.

This one's 592 words.

Yesterday's Child

Wyndham's car was situated near the back of the train, where the dogs were kept. None of the guards stirred or even showed interest as Code approached. He'd worked with most of them for nearly a decade; they didn't regard him as a threat.

He was more careful about pushing open the door, but it was well-oiled and slid open with little noise. There he paused, cocking his head like the dogs gathered around the train, carefully listening. He heard only deep, even breathing.

Wyndham's family was sprawled across the floor. Code navigated the mess of limbs nervously. At least he already knew where the knife was.

They had guns in the supply car, but their crew was steadily moving into the Second Crescent, a long strip of quickly-recovering land situated near water. With more than forty people riding in the trains and a half-dozen acting as scouts, their migration couldn't possibly have gone unnoticed. There'd be constant guards--people and dogs--stationed near the supplies. Code knew. He'd just got off his shift.

Besides, he wanted--something. A momento, because after this, he wouldn't be allowed back. Deserters were never welcome. So... a souvenir, something personal but not easily missed. Guns were precious, and easily stolen. Knives were more common.

He found it, finally, still secured in the pack Wyndham always had on him. "It's bad to be so predictable," Code whispered to the sleeping man; the words brushed against the still air, their presence if not their identity staying.

He left, closing the door shut behind him. He picked up the pack he'd dropped near the wheels and affectionally stroked one of the dogs. "Goodbye," he said. It wasn't at all the audience he wanted.

He should have said goodbye to Ilsa, at least.

He should have said goodbye to his sister.

He couldn't, though. If he did, he'd want to stay. And he couldn't afford that. He couldn't. His sister was depending on him, even if she didn't know it.

Code straightened, gaze drawn to the Second Crescent. It was easily seen, even from this far back in the train; they were on high ground, and the grass that stretched out before them was almost as green as the sweet, healthy color in hazy childhood memories. There were even scraggly, twisting lines that might have been called trees. Code knew that, in a few days' travel, they would see the water.

The Crescent was paradise, if your crew was strong enough to challenge the people already settled there. For Wyndham, the move had been a matter of necessity; their numbers had swelled, and impossible to support in the eastern savannahs. So they'd moved.

Code hoped Wyndham's plan succeeded. He was entrusting his little sister to the crew, after all. It was important she live. He needed a reason to come back, and a reason to go, and a reason to keep fighting.

Code turned around, a clean one-hundred-eighty degrees. In this direction lay the backlands. He'd be able to subsist on hunted animals and foraged food for the first month. And then would come the acid rain.

He wasn't sure how he'd survive that, only a vague certainty that he'd done it before, when he was little, his little hand clutched in his mother's larger, rougher one. He remembered emptiness, stretching from his feet to the horizon, never approaching but never receding, either. And above, the sky, drawn in strange colors. And the smell of the rain, too.

It was a memory that smelled of freedom... or maybe, and more appropriately, fear.

Well. He'd find out soon. Code hefted his pack and began walking. He didn't look back.

Labels: _fiction, c: code, verse: boneyards

I sat down and coughed up this 2,222 words in one sitting. I'm only stopping now because it's nearing eleven and I should go to bed.

It's a very rough draft. There's no editing. Enjoy!

Finding

After years of traveling with Wyndham's crew, Code had forgotten how hard it was to go through the backlands alone. He only had a small pack with him and a coat with proofing thin enough that just one night of rain would render it useless. Code's only option, then, was to move as fast as possible immediately after the acid showers ended and hope he found shelter before the sky darkened again. It wasn't practical, but it was feasible, if only barely.

Unfortunately, "shelter" was rarely an accurate word to describe the places he sought safety in. The one he was in now was really just a glorified hole in the ground. A piece of uneven, thinning metal acted as the roof. The ground was littered with corroded rocks and sand. Code had to gather these into a pile, sit on top of them, and then watch gloomily as rain leaked in, eating away at the foundation of his sanctuary.

Twenty years after the Darkening, the rainfall was lighter than before, nor as frequent, but that didn't mean much. Code's right arm, covered with scars and oddly mottled skin under the bandages, was proof of that.

He sat with his boots under him, most of his weight on his toes. It was uncomfortable, but only his boots were sufficiently proofed. His coat he kept above him, far away the gathering liquid. The level was rising far higher than he'd anticipated, but it wasn't like he could do anything. Worse still, if any backland creature caught him here, he was near-defenseless.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Code heard the distinct crackling sound of feet stepping in sand. His eyes snapped to the opening at the top of the shelter. Moments later the scant light was blocked by a silhouette.

Code reached for the knife tucked securely into his belt. It was Wyndham's most prized possession, ostensibly a gift from his mother. Code had felt guilty for taking it. Now he only relieved.

Code suddenly frowned. The silhouette he saw was in possession of a head, and two arms, and two legs--but that was impossible. If it was a human, he'd be screaming or writhing in pain, as Code had, once upon a time. Maybe it was the angle. Surely no human could stand in the rain like that.

He changed his mind a second later, when something--someone--dropped through the opening, landing with a splash that made Code wince. He didn't even notice the few droplets sizzling through his clothes, though. He was too transfixed at the sight of the man in front of him.

Code had never seen someone completely wet before, except when his little sister was born, and even then it was because she was a newborn covered in amniotic fluid.

It was amazing. He was just standing there, rain dripping off him, completely unaffected and unbothered. Maybe he was proofed. Ilsa had been going on about that before Code had left, but common sense dictated that even if there was a way to proof a human being, he shouldn't be standing so casually like that.

"Would you look at that!" the man said. The words startled Code. The accent was strange--too much emphasis on the consonants, maybe--but...

Surely, if he was from a nearby crew, they'd have heard of this miraculous proofing. Or maybe it was new.

"How can you stand in the rain like that?" Code asked, face completely blank.

His eyes were yellow.

"You're from a crew, aren't you? You must be, huddled up like that."

When he grinned, he revealed sharp teeth, causing Code to move involuntarily back. When some of the rocks shifted, skittering down, he froze, his entire body tense. The yellow-eyed boy in front of him laughed.

"Are you a scout? Because if you are, you should hurry back and tell your crew not to come anywhere near here."

"I'm not. I mean, I'm not a scout. And I left my crew," Code managed. The words stuck in his mouth and against a suddenly clumsy tongue, garbling half the words.

Sharp eyes narrowed. "Oh. Then I should probably kill you."

That was the only warning Code received. The man darted forward. Code brought the knife up, thrusting his upper body forward to bear the weight. He felt it slide pathetically easily into the man's flesh, skidding against a rib before jarring to a stop. Then they both tumbled back, and Code screamed in fear or pain or maybe both. He managed to jerk his body so that he landed on his right arm.

Ilsa had told him that he would never feel anything with it again, that the rain had washed off his nerves. She was wrong. Worse, the water hit his leg and torso, and although the coat stopped most of it a second later it didn't matter, because it leaked through.

Sense burst clumsily through the agony, somehow. He remembered that the stranger was proofed, somehow, and he threw himself with a pained grunt against his assailant. A moment later the man was under him, breathing harshly, wild eyes glaring up, like an absurd living platform on which Code found relative safety.

He really was proofed, Code marveled, because water was seeping into his knife-wound and he wasn't bothered at all. The man jerked up, maybe to grab at him; Code just reached forward, grabbed the knife, and twisted. The man screamed and aborted movement.

The rain was lightening, finally. Code jerked the knife free, then reached forward and in a practiced movement slit the man's throat.

He died without any fuss, already weakened from Code's initial strike.

The burns didn't hurt, not yet, as if his brain was filing the fact away for later. He was breathing hard. His arm, already of limited movement, now wouldn't move at all. When he stood up, he stumbled, because of his right arm.

He needed filtered water, to wash off the acid, and he needed clean cloth, to wrap the new burns. He had access to neither; his fight with the man had resulted in his pack being thrown into the deeper waters. He wasn't about to risk using anything he'd stored in there.

Code poked at his coat with the tip of his knife. Maybe a quarter of it was still dry. Gripping the section between his knees, he managed to roughly cut the salvageable portion, which he then used as protection for his hands as he stripped himself of his ruined clothes.

Somewhere, in that quartered-off section of his mind, the pain registered as he peeled wet cloth off his body.

He was now standing half-naked above a dead man. If his little sister were to see him, she'd make her usual out-of-place joke, probably involving necrophilia. And he'd laugh in response, and then hit her.

Except, of course, she wasn't there. Code looked up into the sky, which was now clear. If he was lucky, he would have a few hours at least before the rain came again. Somehow, he'd have to make it to the next shelter in time before then, even with a wounded leg.

It never occurred to Code to rest, to stay in this shelter until he felt better enough to move again. He had to keep moving. His little sister was running out of time.

-

Code was lucky. The rain didn't come again for a long time--or maybe it was that the seconds were stretching longer, with each limping step sending bursts of pain through him. It was only his right side that was really injured but his entire body was suffering.

The next shelter he found was a lot more reliable. As before, it was a hole in the ground, but there was a proper and respectably deep ditch for the rain to collect in. He was beginning to suspect that someone, maybe some group of adventurers, had set these shelters up in the backlands on purpose, to help whatever idiot next decided to travel through them.

He sat down, back against one dirt wall, and tried not to shiver. When he pressed his hand against his forehead he thought his skin was hot. He hoped he wasn't coming down with a fever, or an infection. His sister couldn't afford that.

The rain was very light, this time. It would let up soon. That was good. Despite the... the interruption, he'd made good time today.

In the back of his mind, in the same place he shut away the agony and doubt and fear, was the nagging worry for food. Backland animals were too poisonous to eat, as were any vegetation he'd come across. What food he did have he'd left next to the man's corpse, and anyway it would be soaked through by now and too dangerous to consume.

Water, too. He didn't have the equipment needed to purify water.

Code closed his eyes, feeling a headache building. All this worrying was frankly useless, so he tried to dredge up happy memories, instead.

Most of them revolved around his sister, with her sweet face and bright eyes. Her personality didn't at all match her innocent appearance, but that was what Code loved about her. She was at once worldly and naive, able to sing songs that made Code blush and yell, but there was a lot she didn't know about.

She didn't know about their mother, and she never would, because Code would never tell her. And she didn't know about life before--all this. The rain, and the poisoning, and the fires.

Code did, even if his recollections were hazy, like a dream. For him, life started the moment his sister was born. Everything before that was blurry, indistinct; everything after that was sharp, like a too-long film Code could peruse at leisure. She'd been a perfect miracle, the envy of the crew. And then, years afterwards, when they'd joined Wyndham's crew, she'd been a miracle to them, too, and a source of hope. Babies could be born, perfect and whole. You just had to be lucky enough.

Code opened his eyes and realized with horror that he'd been sleeping.

It was still raining, or maybe it had started raining again. It was completely dark. He tried to sit up and found that something was covering him.

He groped at the material and thought, blanket. It had the waxy, alien feel of something that had been proofed.

Then he realized something else: His right arm was covered in bandages, as was his leg and the wounded parts of his chest and hip. His fingers skirted uneasily over the cloth. He felt horribly awake, his senses sharpened. He smelled the sour-red scent of some sort of medicine. And something else--

Meat, Code realized, and sat up. The blanket pooled in his thighs.

There was the whisper of movement, and then light flooded the shelter.

Code's eyes took a second to adjust. And then--

"I just killed you!" he blurted, slamming his entire body into the corner of the shelter. The movement jarred him, but he didn't care. He groped for his knife, but it was in the man's hand, held in a lazy, comfortable grip.

The man grinned at him, showing again those sharp teeth. In the dim, yellow light, Code saw the line across his neck. And his shirt was stained by dried blood. "You did," he confirmed. "Hurt like a motherfucker, too. And would you relax?" he added disdainfully. "I went through the trouble of patching you up, why would I bother to hurt you now?"

"You... you did all this?" Code said.

"Yeah. I followed you for awhile, actually, thought it was pretty pathetic the way you limped along like that."

Code just stared. He couldn't have spoken if he wanted to.

The man held something out. It was the meat Code had smelled earlier, and the scent made his mouth water.

"It's safe for you to eat," the man said at Code's stare.

Still, Code didn't move. The man had failed to die, or he had died and come back to life, but Code had injured him. He could be injured. And, although he was taller, his frame was far lighter. Code weighed more. If he threw himself at the man now, when he wasn't expecting it, he could escape, since the man had gone through the trouble of giving him a proofed blanket. With the blanket and his boots, he would be safe in the rain.

And he could get his knife back while he did it, twist the main around, maybe severe his spinal cord this time--see if he could recover from that. Take the time to break his neck, break every bone in his body if it came to that, before he fled. It would be easy. Code was good at surviving.

He lunged forward. His fingers curled around the meat, and then he was back in the corner, huddled like an animal, wary eyes on the man's amused features.

"Thank you," he said, the words coarse against his throat.

"Sure. You're welcome," the man said, and grinned. He stepped forward, put the knife in front of Code, and then stepped back, the torchlight shifting with each step.

Code ate, first. It was good meat, and he didn't die immediately, so perhaps the man hadn't been lying. Then, he inched forward, and curled his fingers around the hilt of his knife. He looked up, but the man didn't move, just watched, all signs of amusement gone.

Code went back, under the blanket, his knife secure in his hands. He said, "Do you have any water?"

Labels: _fiction, c: code, c: liam, verse: boneyards

324 words. (Why are my drabbles always around 300 words? Huh.) This one probably won't make any sense without any context, all of which unfortunately resides in my head. Sorry!

Also, yay for pretentious musical titles.

Discursive Repetition

Lucas is dreaming again. He's standing on the street, wind at his cheeks and hands, the road stone-cold against his bare feet. He's staring at Methis' back.

"Please don't leave," he begs, and feels eight years old again, clutching at the impossible and watching his mother leave.

This is how he knows he's dreaming: Methis turns around, and looks long and hard at Lucas, and doesn't leave. "Al right," he acquiesces.

Lucas wakes up. It's seven and the alarm is screaming in his ear. It's been eight days since Methis left, and it's absurdly unfair that the world is rolling on, that he has an essay due today and a party to attend this Friday, that no one but Lucas cares that Methis is gone.

Methis burst into his life and changed it utterly, tore it out by its roots and flung everything upside down. Now he's gone, except the foundations Methis tore are still broken. The roots don't fit anymore.

Lucas gets up. His backpack sits at the foot of his bed, homework sticking out and rumpled by the weight of his MP3 player.

He goes to school.

-

That night, he dreams again. It's yet another permutation of that night: on the street, cold and barefoot, and he's begging.

Only this time, before he can speak, Methis says: "You really should stop doing this."

Methis doesn't turn around. He doesn't go back. And this is how Lucas knows he isn't dreaming. Except if this isn't a dream, then what is it?

"You shouldn't have left," Lucas retorts, stubborn as always.

"I had to," Methis says. It's almost an apology. "Ise is waiting for me."

"I'm waiting for you," Lucas says, but this time, he doesn't beg as Methis starts walking, each step taking him just that much further. Lucas watches him disappear, and then he wakes up. It's seven, and the alarm's going off. It's been nine days since Methis left. The world keeps turning, and Lucas goes to school.

Labels: _fiction, c: lucas caine devisser, c: methis, verse: etherworld

621 words. I'm sorry for abusing colons, and I'm sorry it's so rough and weird. And I'm sorry Ise's thoughts are so... twisty. x:

Tales Of

It's dark, and the world is suspended on that filigree-thin thread between yesterday and tomorrow. Methis lies fire-hot against Ise, his left arm pillowing her head and neck. She feels the stump of his right brush against her shoulder and entertains the familiar, usual flash of guilt, but such feelings are becoming quieter now. Not less potent, but more strangely unfelt, like a burn against scarred skin.

Methis is still awake. Ise can tell by the way he's breathing, lightly deep and careful, and by the strangely lax quality of his limbs. Awake, Methis is always ready to battle.

She shifts slightly, the sound as loud as rattling wheels against the silence of the night. Because it's dark, she lets her fingers become eyes, running them up the firm planes of his chest to rough lips. She feels a subtle line running from the side of his mouth to his cheek. It's invisible to the eye but not to the touch. "What happened?"

Because Methis never talks unless he is completely sure of his words, long moments pass before he answers. Meanwhile Ise rubs a thumb over that scar, an apologetic caress.

"It's an old knife-wound," Methis murmurs at last.

Ise nods. Her hand moves from his face down to his chest. Because she's tended to many of his wounds, and because of their love-making, she is more familiar with the scars here. But she's suddenly surprised by just how many there are. No matter how many of his injuries she heals, she always forgets that Methis isn't invincible. He's always seemed the ideal warrior, a proud silhouette in the fading sun, a figure existing as a deadly spectre on the battlefield; the newly missing arm only emphasizes the image: He may no longer be whole, but he still stands far above the rest, reducing them to corpses at his feet.

But, ah, here is proof of his mortality. The reminder makes Ise's heart clench. She should not have fallen in love with a warrior. They fall so easily, really. As a healer, she should know that.

Or maybe, Ise thinks, the scars are proof of his vitality. They're past and prophecy, each and every one of them, saying: This is how he has survived, and this is how he will continue to survive.

"This?" Ise asks, fingers resting on a thicker scar, its texture uneven, an unnatural circle on his shoulder.

The reply is almost immediate this time. "Magic, from a sorcerer named Trystan who commanded beams of heat."

Ise finds a flat line across his stomach. When she inquires, he says, "A bandit I was hired to hunt down impaled me."

The gash from shoulder to waist she's always wondered about: "It's a rather standard scar, from a sword."

A zig-zag scar just under his arm: "A madwoman who attacked the lord I was acting as bodyguard for."

The scar on his hip: "Another old knife-wound."

On his thigh: "A spear."

Immediately after, he says, "Why are you asking these questions, Ise?"

Ise's hand ceases its questing. "I don't know," she admits. "Perhaps I'm just curious."

She can't see his face, but she can imagine his expression. Confused, maybe, eyebrows pushed together. Or slightly exasperated, even, eyes rolled up slightly, mouth stretched into a line.

Or maybe amused, judging by his next words: "I don't think the night lasts long enough for you to be curious about every one of them."

"Ah," Ise says. "Do you truly have that many?"

"No," Methis says, and then: "But some have stories longer than others."

"I wouldn't mind listening," she replies. "

The silence comes back as the last of her whispers die away, inviting in again the night. And then Methis says: "Very well, then," and starts to speak.

Labels: _fiction, c: ise, c: methis, p: methis/ise, verse: etherworld

breathe

Sam is breathing.

He is weightless, but his limbs are heavy. His shoes are anchors, while his shirt rises up, up, as if an invisible maid were helping him undress.

Sam is looking up. The sun burns his eyes. It's a broken, irregular thing, shattered into fragments because of the ripples. He reaches for it, but his hand doesn't move.

Sam is breathing. Sam is breathing water.

Sam is drowning.

Labels: _fiction, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity

Drabble, 348 words. The idea just bit me and wouldn't let go.

aftermath

The worst thing, the shittiest thing, is waking up the next day to find that nothing's really changed. He has a few bruises—five on his right arm, where the little fucker had dug his fingers in deep, and one on his left, from where he was slammed against the wall. His legs hurt from all the running he did, but it's a familiar pain, like he's back in school again and running laps, the coach yelling go go go.

He doesn't remember running, although his aching muscles do. He does remember the terror, but not properly, like it happened to some other Samuel Gray, some other poor fucker who got jumped.

In a few days the bruises will fade.

In the bathroom, his toothbrushes are still worn, and the tile in the corner's still cracked. Sam studies his reflection in the mirror, and sees the same gray eyes and straight nose.

"You killed someone, you bastard," Sam says, experimentally, but his expression doesn't change. The sentence doesn't even sound real; the words get swallowed, easy as you please, in the cramped space of the bathroom.

He doesn't remember running. He remembers this, though: The weight of the knife in his hand, and wide, mad eyes staring up at him, the vampire spitting in his face and screaming, no and don't and please, as if there were anyone in the city who would care enough to rush to the rescue.

He'd said something incredibly tacky, something like, You messed with the wrong bastard, maybe, some line from some annual he read when he was a kid, where the heroes are rugged and probably not wimpy-thin like he is.

After his shower, Sam looks at his reflection again. He tries a smile, like he's about to go out with a girl. It's as weird and forced as always, and the girl would probably be unimpressed.

He has work. Sam dresses: pants and shirt and jacket. He finds his knife, clean and unblemished, like he never used it to slit someone's throat. He takes it with him when he leaves.

Labels: _fiction, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity

Cake request for 3-year-old Hitler namesake denied - what a scary article. :|

Anyway, a drabble 383 words long. It's heading somewhere, but I don't care to find out at the moment. Still, interesting enough to post.

I'd rate it PG-13 at the highest, if even that.

-

-

Give me a son, Talin had said, and I will heal your wings.

As if she could have said no.

Exactly two years to the day Talin had uttered those words, Kit had been born: too small, too thin, too quiet, too wrong—but alive, and male. Talin had fulfilled his promise: her wings spread proper now, majestic, and colored a thousand subtle hues in the light.

He had not set her free.

She knew why. Kit spent most of his days asleep, his skin too hot. He never cried, but when he looked at her with the wide, beautiful eyes he had inherited from his father, she thought that it was because he couldn’t.

And he was so small.

They didn’t know what to feed him. The milk from her breasts was refused. Faceless servants brought a thousand different concoctions: teas and milks and honey, even, imported from the other side of the world. They tried solids, too: the raw meat she preferred and the plants and cooked meat the elves ate, but that never worked. He would drink blood, at least, if she touched it gently to his lips.

“You will have to stay,” Talin told her. He visited every day. She didn’t know why.

“You think he will die,” Elisza guessed.

Kit was three months old, and sleeping restlessly. Elisza stroked his cheek lightly with the back of a clawed hand. His malnourishment made his features seem too big. His closed eyes bulged, and his lips thrust out.

“What will you do with him?” Elisza wondered.

“The Seraph will give the child to her son,” Talin answered.

They meant to make him a tool, then. She did not imagine that he would be very useful, however. He was too fragile.

“If he dies, what then?” she asked.

Talin did not answer.

“I see,” she said. “And what if the other babes I give you die as well?”

He did not answer, only reached forward and touched Kit’s forehead with a finger, a ghost-touch the baby could not have felt. But Kit’s eyes flickered open, and they focused with frightening intensity on that finger.

When Talin left, Kit’s eyes closed again, but Elisza could not forget that strong gaze. She looked pensively down at Kit and wondered what he would become.

Labels: _fiction, c: elisza, c: kit scythe, c: talin shadow-walker, verse: errerrin

Etherworld verse.

The drabble is 334 words, and NC-17 because of m/f sex, but it's not like there's any vivid description, or anything. It's unbeta'd.

Normal

Lucas wanted normal for just one night, which is why he is in Kyle's room, with the lights turned off and the curtains shut, his shirt somewhere in the living room and his pants on the floor.

He cups Kyle's breasts with his hands, runs a thumb over a nipple. He thinks, briefly, of hard muscle and dark eyes, and a hot, salty weight on his tongue, but for now this is enough. Kyle is enough.

The radio is still playing in the background. It would be nice if some cliché love song were on, but instead it's two hosts blabbering about celebrities and divorce. Lucas has to fight the urge to roll his eyes, even as he pushes Kyle's knees apart, positions himself, and sinks carefully into her.

Kyle hisses something, a sound that could be yes or is maybe just her expelling breath.

This, Lucas thinks depressingly, is normal. An evening with a girl in her room, with her parents out having dinner somewhere. The radio is still rolling, and saying something about discounts, 20% off but only if you come quickly enough. Kyle is still a girl. Even so, Lucas wants to draw the moment out, except he can't. Can't, because Kyle's parents could come back anytime.

Kyle makes a sudden noise, and this time Lucas is sure it's a word, maybe even his name. Then he feels it, too, that push over the edge. He reaches for her in that final moment and doesn't care that she's soft under him, curves instead of angles, mouthing her neck helplessly as he comes.

Sex makes him sleepy, but Kyle throws his boxers at him, and then his pants. He takes the hint, and dresses. As she heads to the shower, to wash off the smell of him, maybe, she glances back. "You still up for dinner tomorrow?" she asks.

Lucas thinks of normal, and what he isn't.

He smiles at her. "Sorry," he says, "but no. I've got plans with someone else."

Labels: _fiction, c: kyle, c: lucas caine devisser, verse: etherworld

Untitled. Set in the Darkcity verse. I set off to write smut and ended up writing… this.

Unedited, unbeta'd. 1,172 words. m/m hints, but they're easily ignored, imo.

-

-

Sam wakes up because of the rain. It's coming in through the open window, fine as mist and as uncaringly cold as ice. Even so, it takes a few long moments for him to properly wake up. The drizzle may be cold, but he's made himself a deliciously warm cocoon of blankets, which hold in caramel-colored heat.

Finally, though, the thin coating of pure wet on his cheek is enough to convince him to sit up. That's when he notices that he's alone. Dark is gone again.

Sam looks at the mess of pillows in the corner of the room, just to confirm his suspicions, and yes, Dark is gone. There are only pillows, and the blanket that the vampire never uses. Unfortunately, this means that Sam cannot close the window, not unless he wants Dark to break the lock open again trying to return. As a compromise, he pulls it mostly shut. It stops most of the rain, at least.

Sam's exactly the kind of person who can't go back to sleep so easily, so he trudges towards their kitchen. The fridge is almost completely empty, but there's a half-empty carton of milk and cocoa powder in one of the cupboards. Sam pulls out a pan to heat the milk in, and then wanders to the drying rack. He's in luck: there's a clean mug there.

As usual, he spares a few seconds to feel guilty about the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, but isn't actually guilty enough to start cleaning them.

The kitchen has a window, but the only view it offers is the flat, gray, planar surface of the opposite building. At night, the odd, yellow lights from the street cast strange patterns onto the wall. The only mildly interesting thing about the view are the tacky, floral curtains that frame it. Nevertheless, Sam finds himself staring out the window as he pours hot milk into the mug and adds cocoa powder.

He wonders where Dark is, if he's all right. Sam is never sure where the vampire goes at nights like this, if he disappears every night or just some nights. Sam sometimes wonders what he does, but forces himself not to think about it too much. Dark is a vampire, after all, and when Sam allows himself to fully contemplate this fact all he feels is an odd, clenching emotion in his stomach. It's not quite fear, but it's a close relation.

Dark skulks into the kitchen just as Sam is finishing up his drink. The vampire is completely wet, and darkened fabric sticks to his skin. His claws are retracted but there's an animalistic look about him, and he walks quiet as a hunting dog. His eyes are glowing, because Sam forgot to turn the lights on again.

"You better mop up after yourself," Sam says tiredly.

Dark doesn't reply. He does look at Sam, though, and suddenly he's right there, pressing his nose against Sam's neck, a possessive hand on Sam's arm. Sam forces himself to stay still.

Once he's reassured himself of-something, Sam's presence, maybe, who the hell knows-Dark steps back quickly. The lazy, predatory look is beginning to slide from his eyes and he's standing taller. He's looking less and less like a damp hunter coming home and more like a pathetic mess of wet, shivering man.

At Sam's sharp look, Dark heads towards the closet, where they keep the dusty cleaning supplies and spare bedding. Sam takes pity on him, though, and stands to take the mop from Dark's large hands. "Go take a shower," he grouses. "You'd just get water everywhere right now, anyway."

Dark doesn't reply. Sam doesn't know if it's because he's still not quite-returned-or if it's because of Dark's customary stoicism. It's not like he can ask.

While the soft mutter of the shower fills the apartment, Sam mops up the kitchen, then goes to their bedroom. He kicks the pillows in the corner in half-hearted vindication, then goes towards his own bed. The blanket is wet, and a pillow, but that's all, so Sam just dumps both onto the ground and carefully closes and locks the window.

He sits down on the bed but doesn't lie down, and waits.

Dark comes out of the shower completely naked. It's not that he's shameless, or some sort of voyeur; it's just that Dark has ripped throats out with bare teeth, torn people open with sharp claws, and therefore has the sense not to be ashamed of nakedness when, really, he's done so much worse.

"Where'd you go?" Sam says, suddenly, and Dark stills, distracted from the task of toweling his hair dry. His gaze shifts to Sam and in the darkness of the bedroom they are a glittering, dangerous green, like the dendraspis angusticeps, the green mamba, Sam thinks dizzily.

"The sewers," Dark says finally.

Sam hesitates. "What'd you do?"

"You don't normally ask," Dark says. It's a clear warning but Sam ignores it, tilting his chin up and glaring defiantly. It'd probably be more effective if his hands weren't kneading the mattress nervously but Dark concedes, anyway, as he normally does.

"I've been smelling rats near here," Dark replies.

Rats would be the misshapen, half-mad vampires that feed of the strays of the city. They're not quite berserkers-they're too weak for that, a healthy young man could best them in strength-but they're about as aggressive. Dark wouldn't normally register them as threats, except that near here means the rats were unfortunate enough to wander in what Sam supposes Dark thinks of as his territory.

As a general rule, vampires are very territorial.

Sam opens his mouth, gets as far as, "What did you do with-" but then that feeling rides up again, sharp and choking, and seals his words.

If he asked, Dark would answer.

He doesn't ask.

Instead, he forces himself to relax, stills his nervous fingers. He closes his eyes and thinks back to the murky memories of his childhood. An elementary teacher had tried to teach his class meditation techniques. She'd been young and hopeful and not quite successful. But, absurdly, Sam still remembers the general gist of the lesson, years and years later.

"Come here," he says, eyes still closed.

Dark obeys. Sam pulls him down, arranges him on the bed. He runs his hands over Dark's face, brings them down to the sharp, jutting line of his collarbone. A palm presses against Dark's chest.

There, Sam stills. Dark's heartbeat is slow, and irregular. His skin is cold.

Vampires can live for hours without their heart.

Sam puts his head on Dark's chest.

Outside, it's still raining. That, more than Dark's heartbeat, lulls him back into sleep. He's cold, despite the hot cocoa he just drank, but his blanket is wet and Dark's about as effective a heater as a corpse.

Dark says, murmurs, suddenly, "I didn't kill them," but all Sam does is grunt a reply. Later, he'll think the words were a dream.

Labels: _fiction, c: dark, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity