Bart Allen>> Impulse (imp_ulsive) wrote in parabolical, @ 2009-05-16 21:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | bart allen/impulse, damien thorn |
Who: Impulse (Bart) and Damien, and a later appearance by Batman, the destroyer of tantrums!
What: Smackdown? A small hurricane blowing through? Violent fit long overdo?
When: Night, ten-ish.
Where: Somewhere in Silver Lake, outside a club
Rating: R
Silver Lake was quieter than downtown Los Angeles, tamer than Compton and safer than Hollywood was at night. Somebody could make their home there and be happy with what they had. He couldn’t smell a cloud of car fumes or the stench of old fast food that had been allowed to sit for too long. The roads were dark and smooth and a cocker spaniel yelped at him from a closed off porch, small and groomed, a far cry from the chained up pit-bull he’d walked passed three minutes ago. He could imagine that it belonged to an old lady standing over a stove in the kitchen, or a family with kids running up and down the stairs just beyond the sliding glass door. The houses were safe havens. They were tidy and neat and some of the fences were white, the kind of fences you saw in movies, on the covers of magazines in the doctor’s office.
Here, everything was veiled in an illusion of assurance. The people were normal (or so they seemed) and nothing looked as dark as everything looked in the heart of the city. The trees lining the sidewalk to his right were all oaks and elms, trees that would have seemed out of place downtown, amidst the gangs and the hungry vampires, the sick women with the pale faces and too much makeup. There was a baseball on the pavement, dropped and forgotten by a child who had been called in for the night. Impulse knelt down to pick it up, stood and held it in his hand. He threw it up once, caught it as it came back down and then struck his shoes against the ground, moved unseen, a straight line at first, a red streak.
Ten miles to a parking lot outside a club occupied by people he couldn’t see. He wasn’t going to stay there, not at first. There was a breeze and a car horn going off, a girl laughing, the beat of a song inside the walls, lit up at the top by a sign blinking bright green. The door opened and someone stepped out, three people that Impulse wouldn’t have paid attention to if one of them had been someone else.
The teenager in red seethed. He sucked in air between his teeth and lowered his head, watched from the shadows, ill-tempered and annoyed. Pristine, it was pristine were he was, above suspicion, different than the corruption that smothered most of Los Angeles. Feeling greedy and protective of the perfect lawns and the college students out for the night, Impulse wasn’t happy to see Damien where he was. An anti-Christ didn’t belong there and thinking about Logan, the toy who had once had a family and a girlfriend and a real life, he followed the trio with his eyes blazing.
The car Damien went to get into was no doubt expensive. It was pretty, sleek and probably new. He had no respect for a car that belonged to Damien Thorn.
Impulse gripped the baseball that was still in his hand, dug his fingers into the sides, drew back his arm. He hurled it with a limb moving faster than the speed of light. It wasn’t a child’s toy any longer. In the right hands it was a weapon, a thing that could kill, take off a head in a split second, destroy a vital organ, knock down a man miles and miles away.
It hurt nobody but the car. The ball tore into the door, busting up metal and chipping away paint, a clean wound that would be hard to explain. The collision was loud and Impulse was right there, steps away from an owner he hoped to find pissed off.
“You really should watch where you park your car. Never know what kind of unruly teenagers are walking these streets.” Impulse’s smirk wasn’t there, but there was a look in his eyes, a look that clearly said I did that. Go away before it’s you next time.