olga foroga (fjords) wrote in write_lab, @ 2014-09-15 00:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | instance one, ~chthonian, ~rainbowling |
instance one.
PLAYERS: fjords (recently recovering from something) & rainbowling (gesticulates a lot when speaking)
SCENARIO: Under a broken streetlight
WARNINGS: None.
The streetlight guttered and flickered, winking once, twice, thrice before finally going out like an eye squeezing shut. Perhaps it was sick of looking at the city. A dull and incessant drizzle pounded on its streets—it wasn't a dramatic downpour but a weary plod, like a heavy coating of water that wouldn't leave, that crept into the eyes and soaked through the shoes that seeped into each item of clothing, no matter how watertight they were supposed to be. Ought to get a fucking refund on this coat, he thought. A man huddled beneath the light, grunting in irritation once it finally went out and plunged the street corner into darkness. He instinctively took a few steps back, taking cover in the newfound puddles of shadow. He moved gingerly, each movement careful and favouring his left side, his head still turned away from where the light had so recently shone. He checked his watch once, twice, thrice, as if time could somehow leap ahead whenever he wasn't looking, minutes sliding and blurring into each other in one indistinguishable mass. He counted out the minutes against the background noise of rain and traffic and car horns and the occasional distant siren. They were late. Not by much, granted, but her grandmother had always said lateness was a gift to Satan and too many gifts would make a girl his bride, and so when she finally showed up, wet hair plastered against her face and a long, steady stream of water dripping off her hooked nose, the girl was nearly frantic. “I’m so sorry,” she called out, one arm hugging the ragged trench coat to her body and the other hand slicking back her hair, pushing the dirty-blonde-when-dry bangs out of her eyes. Her face shone in the flickering light, stark orange glow on the black night, bits of light reflecting off the wet leaves of the waxy shrub behind her. Her feet were soaked, thin canvas shoes fraying in places, the old stains hidden in the dim light. She blinked once, twice, thrice, before daring to look up at him and see the disappointment written on his face; the corners of his mouth were arranged in a thin line, the furrow of his brow shadowed in the darkness. “I had a rough time with it, but we're all here.” Her free hand fluttered in front of her nervously, then reached back to push hair behind her ear that was already placed there. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her temple, tucking those errant locks back into place and fussing like a mother hen. “Well? Do you want to see them? Will they work?” she asked, pulling him a little closer. She slowly pulled open her coat, carefully so the rain wouldn't get in, and let him have a look. Nestled against her sweater were four tiny kittens. The man peered in, one hand blocking the rain while four sets of eyes blinked up at him. “As far as distractions go, it’s pretty unconventional,” he said. “But we’re at the end of our rope and can’t set off anything destructive indoors. Think they'll be fine in the vents? They're loud, someone should hear 'em soon enough and go searching.” Even under the broken streetlight, there was enough ambient light to see by. She was close enough now to see that the side of McConnell's face was still burned, mottled with still-healing flesh. When he spoke, the corner of his mouth tugged unpleasantly and it gave his voice a slurred, dragging quality. It hadn't been like that before. She shuddered, then quickly put her hand on her face, pushing it away from him. “I didn't— I didn't mean for her to do that.” “We don't mean for a lot of things, babe.” His mouth twitched again in anger; McConnell had never been fond of her sister. She'd heard, of course, from Marty, that poor oaf, but it was different to see it in person. Her fingers itched to reach out and hug him, apologize again and again but that wasn't the relationship they had. He'd leave her again, and she couldn't bear that. So instead her fingers tugged at the thick canvas of her coat, the flickering hiding her nerves. Theirs was a relationship of balance, Laurel walking on eggshells in order to keep the last thing she had. She could see him watching her, his dark eyes flickering like they were the streetlight itself, and she shivered, but this time from the cold. “They'll work,” she told him. “I sprung for the upgrade.” Each movement was like an uncontrollable spasm, her spider-like hands twitching: in another time and another place, he might have caught them and pressed her knuckles between his, forcing them to go still. Instead, McConnell folded his own hands into his decidedly-not-waterproof coat pockets. “They damn well better,” he said. “We need to get into that vault.” Anxiety bled off Laurel in waves, written in the constant movement, the fidgeting. A few hours later, those same fingers were drumming on the side of the car, rapping out a pattern as the pair stared at the skyscraper's entrance. The facade was gleaming and clean and brightly-lit, a far cry from the dark corners they usually frequented. Something in McConnell's stomach twisted, like stones grinding against each other in his belly, rattling alongside the painkillers. The kittens had been planted indoors and it was almost time to move. The gun was even heavier in its holster, a cold weight against his aching ribs. She could see its outline under his shirt and her hands fluttered in her lap. She pressed them deeper in between her knees. “You'll be able to keep up the act?” he asked. (He still kept his other side firmly facing the driver's window, shielding her from the view. He did not miss her constant glancing.) “New boyfriend'll swallow the bait, hook line and sinker?” Laurel nodded. Her hair was dry now, a cheap dress hung off her thin shoulders and her feet were shoved into heels half a size too small. A broken umbrella rested against her legs, as cheap as her clothes but, like everything else: it was the best she had. “I'll convince him, don't worry.” Her hands flew out from her lap and she held her palms up toward him, haltingly hitting the air to show how serious she was. “I know what's at stake. I’m— willing to do anything.” McConnell chuckled. Turning from him, her eyes scanned the metallic building outside the window and she dug her fingers into the soft rubber where the window met the door. The glass was like ice, the cold creeping into her fingers and making her more alert, more awake. “Anything,” she repeated breathlessly. Turning back to McConnell, she tapped her fingers once, twice, thrice again on the side of the car. “We ready?” “As ready as we're ever gonna be, babe. Go.” And with that word, it was like a starting pistol going off and the woman was out like a shot in a flash of fabric, the door slamming shut behind her as she strode up the walk towards the entrance, broken umbrella held proudly above her head. He watched her try to infuse a swagger into each step, warming up for what awaited her inside, her meager curves used to best effect. It was a good act. Not like the number her sister had pulled on him, but good. Laurel disappeared into the skyscraper, and the minutes stretched out. And stretched out some more. While McConnell waited, his hands started twitching and drumming against the steering wheel—as if her jitteriness were infectious and he'd caught it like a plague, sinking beneath his skin. His foot kept bouncing against the floor of the car, itching for the gas pedal. He checked his watch, checked it again. Its minute hand crawled, reached the appointed time, and then... kept going. It was too late. What the hell was going on inside? He reached for his gun and unlatched the door, and just as he did—finally—the alarm bell rang. Lights flickered off in windows up and down the building, like the Christmas display at Rockefeller, except these stayed off. The doors on both sides of the building opened, people streaming out into the streets while mustard-suited doormen kept to their task of holding open doors. Suited businessmen filed out, secretaries and mistresses and the occasional child, all trying to quickly find a dry refuge. Laurel came out the door facing Fifth Avenue, umbrella forgotten and her gentleman's suitcoat over her shoulders. Her hands tugged on his jacket, reached into his pockets and he kept pushing her away, looking around bashfully. She was nothing if not insistent, and he gave in finally, his hand wrapping around her back to dip her low, a long, rain-studded kiss planted on her lips. Her hand clutched his belt loop, and she tugged, pulling him into the alley where, the man expected, they would find privacy. The fool wasn't bright enough to expect what else waited in the alley. As soon as they stepped in, the heel of the gun came swinging through the darkness. There was a glint of light on metal before the butt connected with the gentleman's temple and he crumpled, falling into McConnell's arms like another swooning dame; he caught the other man's dead weight, hefting it against his bandaged shoulder with a wince. Then McConnell's hands were diving into the blazer pockets, rifling ignobly through them while Laurel hovered by the mouth of the alley, peering for bystanders. (Nearby, the evacuees from the building stomped their feet and grumbled against the rain, oblivious.) McConnell's fingers soon wrapped around a keycard and fished it out, a triumphant grin splitting across his cracked and ruined face. It turned into partway a grimace—the rain was stinging salt on his burns and he readjusted his hat, trying to take cover. “Not a hitch,” he muttered to himself. His heart was starting to pound a tattoo against his ribcage now as they neared their objective. Just a little longer. “You find it?” she called back to him, her eye still on the street. “Got it.” In the blink of an eye, McConnell was back by her side, his good hand resting on Laurel's shoulder where she shivered through the suitcoat. She glanced up at him, her eyes finding the burns on his face and she shuddered, turning away from him with a quiet cry. “Wait,” she told him, one hand covering her mouth and the other clenching the coat tighter around her. “I need a moment.” Heels clicking down the alley, she stooped down at the unconscious man's side and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. Shadows crossed his face but Laurel thought she could make out the beginnings of a bruise on his forehead, any trickle of blood washed away into his rain-soaked hair. Behind her she heard the squeak of a rat, surely curious to see if this new thing on the ground could be its next meal. “I'm sorry, Jonny,” she whispered, making the sign of the cross. Back at McConnell's side, she pulled at his jacket and pointed at a sewer grate. “That one.” “Fucking tech barons,” the man groused as he followed Laurel's touch and crouched at the grate, heaving at the slippery metal. Her slim fingers slipped into the holes to help and she couldn't help but make a face at the grime caked on. “Secret tunnels. Keycards. Remote-activated felines. I miss the good old days, when it was just a safe and your ears and your hands. None of this fucking nonsense with—” The alarm kept caterwauling behind them, the whole building shuddering as it continued to eject people into the night. The two of them had a small window in which the hallways would be empty. “And your sister won't be a problem?” he said warningly, his voice like steel. He'd left Eliza crumpled in her hospital bed after the fire; she might be a bitch and he might be a bastard, but he simply hadn't the heart to kill her. For Laurel's sake. His eyes searched her, but she shook her head, then dipped it back downward into a shadow. “I told you I was willing to do anything,” she murmured, the cover hitting the stone sidewalk beside her, the clang resonating down the alley. She pushed her hand down on the metal to silence it. Turning toward him she parted her lips, as if to say something, but quickly shut them again, reaching into his pocket and snatching something. Clicking on the flashlight, she put it in her mouth and swung one leg into the dark hole, then the next, and began her descent. Fifteen minutes later, they were shadowed in a doorway, breathing recycled air as the heavy iron door swung slowly open. The vault sprawled ahead of them, all clean tabletops and piles and piles (and piles of money). “Jesus fucking christ,” McConnell breathed. Something hitched in his chest. Joy welled up inside him, layered like frosting over the scars, the burns, the exhaustion, and he felt like he could have floated up into the ceiling. He was distracted, leaning over the stacks and stacks of money, his hand gingerly running along their corners, feeling paper rustle beneath his palm. An incredulous laugh rolled out of the man's chest, partly numb with shock. He started fumbling, pulled out the rolled-up bag from its position under his elbow, and started sweeping the money into it like trash off the table. Except it wasn't trash: it was their way out, it was robbing Jonny the Mogul blind, it was— He was so distracted, he didn't even notice the click of heels behind him as Laurel approached; the usual tell-tale tingle of warning at the nape of his neck did not flare as it usually did. Click. He couldn't see it, but there was something different about the woman behind him. She stood taller. Her hands didn't move. There was a spark in her eye, a confidence hidden before behind downward looks and slumped shoulders. She tapped her hand against her dress once, twice, thrice. “Sorry, McConnell.” The man's grip on the money loosened and he turned, finally feeling that crawling sensation shivering its way up his spine (too late, far too late). As he stared into her eyes, now under clinically bright fluorescent lighting rather than a broken streetlamp, he could finally see. The slight overlapping colours at the edges of her irises, where contact lenses of pale blue layered over her natural green. Their faces were otherwise identical, but their mannerisms had always been different as night and day. “Eliza—” Meeting his eye, she shook her head ever so slightly and made the sign of the cross. There was a flash of light, a thundering bang, and then silence. From behind her, a robot kitten rubbed up against her leg and mewed. “I told you I was willing to do anything.” |