Place: Paradise City Title: Somebody Author: Red Critiques: PLEASE. Always. As thorough and unsparing as you can manage without crossing the line to viciousness. Theme: THRILLERS 02. Blood Character: ‘Cet Diamorphine Rating: PG-13/R ... not much onscreen this time. Claimer: This is an original setting and these characters are, in fact, mine. Dirty city moments. Adults only. May be triggering to other dacnomaniacs and to the morally sensitive. Otherwise, proceed. Summary: Still struggling a little, but not quite as much. Songprompting helps a lot. I never hear that word in the Agent Orange cover as what it's meant to be ...
Don’t you want …?
Clambering up the stone wall, senses open to the wind, seeking. He’s been on the streets since eleven PM, and he hasn’t seen a single damn person. It’s coming up on four now, and ‘Cet is amazed, mystified, and beginning to get angry. The Triangle is *never* this empty. Never. And now he’s ranging to the edges of his territory, running out of places to look. So he climbs the wall, gritting his teeth, digging his claws in. Brick and mortar splinter away from the pressure, rattling and clattering down the wall to the ground. He resents the implication that he hasn't been working hard enough. So he puts some real effort into it, dragging his thin body up over the top of the wall, gripping the bricks firmly with his hind talons so as not to fall backwards.
Don’t you need … ?
Yes, he thinks in response. Yes, yes, yes. But there’s nothing on the wind, nothing in the air. Everyone is inside, asleep. Against all odds, the city that never sleeps appears to have fallen into somnolence. Frustration like a bat trapped in a car rattles around inside, and ‘Cet has to grit his teeth to keep from screaming pure frustration into the city night. That’ll wake someone up, he knows, but not who he wants …
Wouldn’t you love …?
Turning the knife over and over in his hand, the other pressed to his belly, the raindrake wrinkles his muzzle, whining softly. He is empty, he has no money, no herbs, no sketch even. He begins to despair of finding anyone.
You better find …
I know! “I KNOW!”
“Hey!”
That wasn’t his own voice, and an instant later, the misborn finds himself bathed in light. ‘Cet turns, overlong tail curling and flicking. He is agitated. If he knows his luck, and he does -- yep, goddamnit -- looking down at the foot of the wall, his lips peel back from his teeth. A skinkeeper! The cop is pointing a flashlight at him, squinting up at the figure on the wall with mild befuddlement. “Son, what are you doing up there? And who are you talking to? Git down before you hurt your -- holy Mother, don't let go!”
‘Cet barely hears the skinkeeper's voice. His nostrils are clotted with the heavy scent of bull. Something deep inside lifts its head and roars, something ancient and nameless.
He lets go of the wall.
Falling down at the bull in uniform with knife and claws at the ready, wings pinioned to speed the drop, 'Cet's mind whirls in ancitipation, oblivious to the ninety-foot fall. Before the cop realizes what just happened and drops his flashlight in favor of his sidearm, ‘Cet lands with the whistle and squeal of talons scrabbling over body armor and they both go down, rolling. 'Cet howls and thrashes, digging with three sets of claws while he tries to find a place to put the knife, his teeth, but at the same time the bull knows he's got three times the weight of his attacker so 'Cet has to keep jerking, keep them rolling, for if the bull gets atop him he'll be crushed. Copper and gut-scent punch through the pseudodragon's nostrils to his brain, something swings down onto his horn and he finds his grip, biting
/stutter/
(stillness?)
‘Cet pushes himself up, lying across the motionless body of the former policeman. He stares down at the lolling head, into the glassy eyes. He doesn’t remember falling. He doesn’t remember the wall. He sees only one thing. The gashes, the slashes, the marks of his own claws and teeth. But mainly, the knife. What’s on the knife, what he’s licking off the knife even before he becomes aware of what it is. Bronze eyes glitter golden in the flashlight backwash.