Place: Paradise City Titles: As the prompts. Author: Red Theme: NIGHT 23. Strangers 04. Flicker 07. Fountain Characters: Shawcross (black tiguar) Rating: R 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: Shawcross has a bad evening. Or good, depending on when you ask him. Three hundred-some words in three places across town.
Shawcross couldn't help but notice that other guy looking at him.
He still wasn't sure entirely where he was. He was in an Aimless Mood, drifting, unsure, uncommitted, unsettled. He had meandered onboard without destination or purpose, and had stayed on the bus. He and this other guy were the only ones left that hadn't found their stop yet.
With a rattling belch of engine gases, the bus slid to a stop at the METRO. The meaning of the bus driver’s glare was obvious.
Heads down, embarrassed, Shawcross and the other man shuffled off the bus, one after the other.
As Trent got off the bus, he has noticed the other guy leaving behind him, the good-looking one. Five or six buttons were pinned to his jacket lapel.
Trent, wanting a reason to talk to the guy, had grabbed him by the shoulder as he passed by. "Hold on, can I read your buttons?"
An expression flickered across the man’s face when touched that shocked Trent into silence. It was the look on the face of every beaten child in the world, caught off guard and expecting a blow for it. Then it disappeared into a bottomless rage that could swallow the world, much less a small person like Trenton T. Ysidro.
Before he could say he was sorry, he noticed a silver flicker very close to his face, and then it was altogether too late to say anything.
It rose into the darkness, perfect and glistening and free. Heat danced and trickled down Shawcross's face as he watched the fountain rise higher, higher, and then lose pressure all at once, trickling slowly away.
Not quite satisfied, he presses on the source, but his only reward is a fitful little pulse before it returns to slow dribbling.
Well, Shawcross reminds himself philosophically as he cuts deeper into the man’s neck, intending to carry his head away for the ants. He only wanted the skull, as a reminder of the jugular fountain. Only got so much blood. Not his fault.
Place: Paradise City Title: As the prompt. Author: Red Critiques: Always. As thorough and unsparing as you can manage without crossing the line to viciousness. Theme: NIGHT 03. Escape Character: ‘Cet Diamorphine (krros) Rating: R to NC-17; graphic violence, ‘bad words’ Summary: I haven’t been able to get anything but this stuff to come out of my head lately. Really struggling with this for some reason even though I really want to write. In short, this’ll probably need serious ripping up. Go for it.
Bronze eyes flare brilliant amber in the yellow streetlight. It was a good chase, but now it's all over. The alley opens up and crashes closed behind them, a wave of trash frozen forever. The pursuee had apparently mistaken this trashpile alleyway for another one, one which contained a trapdoor or a ladder or somesuch, diving down it like it were the gaping mouth of salvation.
It had turned out to be the gaping mouth of a trap. So sorry for you.
The cornered rat screams, desperate enough to hope the sound will bring someone, anyone.
His pursuer, a short, shaggy raindrake, flattens his ears, teeth bared in deep annoyance. The sound does nothing for his headache. And moreover, he resents the implication. "You planning to call blue on me, fucker?" He advanced, fur thick with drying rat blood, and the remaining rodent shrunk away, back pressed to the slimy brick wall. Terror had taken control of his tongue some time ago, so his only response was a rasping, chittering litany of obsequious garshit, which 'Cet put an end to with a thundering impatient snarl.
The bastard had given him a good run for his money, but in the end, the Iron Triangle was 'Cet's territory, 'Cet's gang's territory, for that matter. This damnfool ratpack had been way out of line just setting foot within the boundaries, much less how they liked to talk ...
---
"Yeh, we know dis be Horned Serpent ground," the tallest of the three hissed, his little round eyes glittering in an unpleasant manner in the moonlight. His compatriot exhaled a long plume of crank smoke into 'Cet's nostrils. "Thing is, misborn," he'd continued, "Dere's one of you, and three of us. And even if you weren't a glass-blooded little freak," the rat had stated, advancing on the much shorter man so they were barely a foot apart, "we's with Pinskate Twelve, an' you ain't nothin," the rat's eyes hovered on the ancient, faded rank tattoo visible on his left shoulder, "but a miserable crew boss. Boss of a dead crew, no less. So why don't you just f -- "
Here, the roller's voice twisted into an ugly gurgling squeal, as 'Cet's teeth met and locked together through the rat's neck. Simultaneously, five bared talons at the tips of five strong fingers buried themselves in the chest of the shortest of the three rats. Each claw popped through the skin and muscle, and 'Cet lifted him off the ground effortlessly, talons hooked under the jerking, gasping rodent's ribs. With a practiced left-right jerk of his neck, the least-dragon's jaws ripped free of the ex-leader, taking a significant chunk of flesh away. This he shook again, spraying blood left and right, crushing it again and again. Then he tossed back his head and swallowed the hunk of meat whole, his throat briefly distending as the mass slid past his crop and into his belly. Meanwhile, the rat on the other hand struggled desperately for life. His clawing and kicking so irritated the raindrake that he turned and flung his arm outward with all his strength. The doomed gangbanger sailed free of the grasping, stabbing talons, but an instant later squealed as 'Cet grabbed ahold of his tail midair. In one smooth yanking-swinging motion he jerks the rat around, smashing his skull against the nearest wall.
Standing in the shower of blood and brains, drooling crimson, 'Cet had allowed himself a good laugh at the third rat's retreating back, giving him a ten-second head start. Then he'd taken off himself, nostrils stretched so as not to miss even the smallest thread of the prey's scent.
All became the pavement, the motion of running, the scent of prey and the taste of blood in his mouth ... and then the rat had ducked down the alley, compelling 'Cet to pick up his pace, almost afraid he was about to lose the fucker. Tracking was such a pain without the pack.
He needn't have worried, of course. Which brings us up to now.
The rat is sobbing, crawling away. Knowing he can't escape, his instincts have turned to submission, placation. 'Cet's clawed bloody muzzle curls in a disgusted sneer, batting away outstretched hands holding a wallet, bling, drugs. Instead he grabs the man by the hair and the shoulders, planting one bare-clawed hindpaw on the banger's stomach, in order to disembowel the rat should he struggle. The pseudodragon stares deep into the rat's eyes.
"Now," he says calmly, quietly. "Have we learnt our lesson about tresspassing?"
"Yes," the rat replies, black eyes very wide. As 'Cet yanks his head back by the hair, exposing his bare throat, the rat shrieks, perhaps thinking he hadn't said it loud enough: "Yes! YESYESYES!sorrysorrysorry -- "
One good claws-out smack across the jaw puts a stop to that, but 'Cet's headache has progressed to a real blinder. It feels as though his own horn has begun stabbing inward rather than outward, and 'Cet finds his patience wearing thin.
"Shut up. I believe you." Bleeding, whimpering, one eye squeezed shut, the rodent opens his mouth to speak, but snaps it shut when 'Cet raises his hand again. "However, I don't think your lord has. So you get to take a message back to him. Deal?"
"Oh yes I will, yes, please, lemme right now, I'll go right now, thank you, thank you, tha -- " And here is where 'Cet yanks hard on the rat's hair and lunges forward, sinking his teeth into the bared throat.
Silence, blessed silence, descends instantly, broken only by the rustle and clatter of miscellaneous things falling to the filthy ground as the rat jerks and twitches in his death throes. Grinding his jaws deeper, harder, until they click together and the body falls away with a cloth-like tearing flesh effect.
Why do they always think there's an escape to be found?