doppel bang bang bang // [BARFs Day 4]
Jul 5, 2015 11:10:18 GMT -5
Post by admin kay on Jul 5, 2015 11:10:18 GMT -5
[googlefont="Coda Caption:800"]
lyon
Circe, who had already fully explored this particular Gunner La Torre landscape, found no reason to be gentle. She pried open the wound with duct taped fingers and set to work clearing it out with the tip of her needle, separating cash from flesh. “I figured out what your problem is, La Torre. You worship a pagan god.” She plucked out a particular deep piece, almost an entire bloodied and crusted bill. In her lap, a small collection of important (Gunner’s blood) and useless (torn up paper) collected. She puckered her lips, blowing gently over the gap in Gunner’s bicep, hoping to tease out any more foreign objects. The small wind she generated only highlighted blood and tissue.
As Circe pinned needle and thread to flesh, she dropped her other hand along the sinuous curves of Gunner’s body. “And your god cannot worship you back.”
Later, she laid beside Orion beneath a machine that was more past than present. Rusted beams canopied overhead, and all around them, wires knit themselves into a nest. It was illusion of privacy that let Circe breathe a little slower, let her stare at him and wonder. In the dark of the night, she let herself probe the question, why do I give a shit about you, Orion Hammerfell?
Her fingers grazed along the four day stubble on his chin. “Now that I’ve got some knives, I could shave this for you, if you wanted. Jaime always preferred a straight razor,” she said, although it wasn’t like Orion had demanded her credentials. She let her fingers fall, tracing the broad sweep of his jaw, circling his adam’s apple, down to his bare chest. Circe pushed her hand against his heart, wondering if more than a quarter piece beat within his ribcage. He’d offered that piece, however large or small to her, and she hadn’t even done him the courtesy of responding.
She could have blamed Gunner, who had taken up residence in her mind and body. As though she didn’t think about La Torre enough during her waking hours, she dreamed about her too, of a barrel pressed to her temple. The salt on her lips made her thirsty for more and she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she would not sleep at Orion’s side.
And yet. There was still that quarter piece pulsing, oddly in tune with Orion’s heartbeat.
She forced her gaze up to meet his, feeling the cold pinch of fear in her gut. “All I have to offer you is this small little moment. What’s come before, what’s coming next. That’s all already gone. But this,” she kissed him more gently than she had yet, more gently than she had kissed anyone since Jaime, “this moment has a weight all its own.”
In the velvety silhouettes between night and morning, Circe took her leave. She knew he wasn’t asleep, but at least he did her the courtesy of pretending to be. She took the scenic route through broken down machinery back to the conveyor belt. It barely registered that their prisoners had absconded, except that she made a beeline for her bag. She flipped over the flap, fingers plunging into velveteen.
The sigh she let out was deep and long. In the near dark she worked, opening the blanket over the belt, fumbling until she found the snippet of Gabrielle’s jacket. She stretched it as long as it would go, and then stitched it into her tapestry, to be the spine of her shadow. She was still fingering the fabric, checking the stitches, when she heard Gunner shift.
Needle in between her teeth, she whispered, “any other places that need a little attention?”
The night thereafter is short. Circe fell into a sort of sleep, drifting in between. At the first light of dawn, the rhythm shifted. She woke to a needle dangling from thread, centimeters from her green eye. The pendulum swung back and forth and all around, and just like the barrel of the gun, there was nothing she could do but shut her eyes and forget.
In the true light of the morning, she inhales one last breath of Gunner, and takes her leave. Circe is meticulous about checking her supplies, strapping her bag to her back, touching each of nine hilts hidden on her person. She stares at the twisted metal and rotting wood, deciding none of it is worth keeping. “Sleep well?” She asks Nat Krigel with a smirk. “Nothing like a little time with La Torre to soothe the nerves.”
She picks her way through the Factory carefully, staying ahead of her allies. Nat’s too busy making googly-eyes at Gunner to be a stimulating conversational partner, and Gunner has found a new obsession. The birds have recognized their predator, but if anything, that has only seemed to increase Gunner’s interest. Which leaves Circe with Orion, who has returned to his Silent Hulk ways. She made a passing effort to say ‘good morning’ but even that was poorly received. There is simply no more space in her head to sort out what is happening in his, and even though her stomach twists, she marches forward, and hopes they all follow.
In the end, there was only one place for them to go. Circe scales the platform first, propping her shoulder against the open door of the train car. “All Aboard!”
1-2�”throwing knife”
lyon
circe
district two female
Circe, who had already fully explored this particular Gunner La Torre landscape, found no reason to be gentle. She pried open the wound with duct taped fingers and set to work clearing it out with the tip of her needle, separating cash from flesh. “I figured out what your problem is, La Torre. You worship a pagan god.” She plucked out a particular deep piece, almost an entire bloodied and crusted bill. In her lap, a small collection of important (Gunner’s blood) and useless (torn up paper) collected. She puckered her lips, blowing gently over the gap in Gunner’s bicep, hoping to tease out any more foreign objects. The small wind she generated only highlighted blood and tissue.
As Circe pinned needle and thread to flesh, she dropped her other hand along the sinuous curves of Gunner’s body. “And your god cannot worship you back.”
Later, she laid beside Orion beneath a machine that was more past than present. Rusted beams canopied overhead, and all around them, wires knit themselves into a nest. It was illusion of privacy that let Circe breathe a little slower, let her stare at him and wonder. In the dark of the night, she let herself probe the question, why do I give a shit about you, Orion Hammerfell?
Her fingers grazed along the four day stubble on his chin. “Now that I’ve got some knives, I could shave this for you, if you wanted. Jaime always preferred a straight razor,” she said, although it wasn’t like Orion had demanded her credentials. She let her fingers fall, tracing the broad sweep of his jaw, circling his adam’s apple, down to his bare chest. Circe pushed her hand against his heart, wondering if more than a quarter piece beat within his ribcage. He’d offered that piece, however large or small to her, and she hadn’t even done him the courtesy of responding.
She could have blamed Gunner, who had taken up residence in her mind and body. As though she didn’t think about La Torre enough during her waking hours, she dreamed about her too, of a barrel pressed to her temple. The salt on her lips made her thirsty for more and she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she would not sleep at Orion’s side.
And yet. There was still that quarter piece pulsing, oddly in tune with Orion’s heartbeat.
She forced her gaze up to meet his, feeling the cold pinch of fear in her gut. “All I have to offer you is this small little moment. What’s come before, what’s coming next. That’s all already gone. But this,” she kissed him more gently than she had yet, more gently than she had kissed anyone since Jaime, “this moment has a weight all its own.”
In the velvety silhouettes between night and morning, Circe took her leave. She knew he wasn’t asleep, but at least he did her the courtesy of pretending to be. She took the scenic route through broken down machinery back to the conveyor belt. It barely registered that their prisoners had absconded, except that she made a beeline for her bag. She flipped over the flap, fingers plunging into velveteen.
The sigh she let out was deep and long. In the near dark she worked, opening the blanket over the belt, fumbling until she found the snippet of Gabrielle’s jacket. She stretched it as long as it would go, and then stitched it into her tapestry, to be the spine of her shadow. She was still fingering the fabric, checking the stitches, when she heard Gunner shift.
Needle in between her teeth, she whispered, “any other places that need a little attention?”
The night thereafter is short. Circe fell into a sort of sleep, drifting in between. At the first light of dawn, the rhythm shifted. She woke to a needle dangling from thread, centimeters from her green eye. The pendulum swung back and forth and all around, and just like the barrel of the gun, there was nothing she could do but shut her eyes and forget.
In the true light of the morning, she inhales one last breath of Gunner, and takes her leave. Circe is meticulous about checking her supplies, strapping her bag to her back, touching each of nine hilts hidden on her person. She stares at the twisted metal and rotting wood, deciding none of it is worth keeping. “Sleep well?” She asks Nat Krigel with a smirk. “Nothing like a little time with La Torre to soothe the nerves.”
She picks her way through the Factory carefully, staying ahead of her allies. Nat’s too busy making googly-eyes at Gunner to be a stimulating conversational partner, and Gunner has found a new obsession. The birds have recognized their predator, but if anything, that has only seemed to increase Gunner’s interest. Which leaves Circe with Orion, who has returned to his Silent Hulk ways. She made a passing effort to say ‘good morning’ but even that was poorly received. There is simply no more space in her head to sort out what is happening in his, and even though her stomach twists, she marches forward, and hopes they all follow.
In the end, there was only one place for them to go. Circe scales the platform first, propping her shoulder against the open door of the train car. “All Aboard!”
OOC Notes
Day 4 fite!
Day 4 fite!
[Circe attacks Nat Krigel; throwing knives]
iIg8XJEv1-2
throwing knife
[Deep Gash on Calf -- 8.0 damage]
iIg8XJEv1-2
throwing knife
[Deep Gash on Calf -- 8.0 damage]
1-2�”throwing knife”
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