Arachne McKinnon <*> D10 {FIN}
Aug 5, 2012 18:01:13 GMT -5
Post by Ally is tentatively back on Aug 5, 2012 18:01:13 GMT -5
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{Name} Arachne "String" Isabella McKinnon
{Age} Sixteen
{District} Ten
{Gender} Female
{Sexuality} Homosexual
{Age} Sixteen
{District} Ten
{Gender} Female
{Sexuality} Homosexual
You could say it's my instinct.
Yes I still have one.
There's no time to second guess it.
Yes I still have one.
There's no time to second guess it.
{Appearance}
Her knuckles are white as she clings to the zipline handles. Most would think it's from fear, but the girl next to her, the bright Yang to her shadowy, dangerous Yin, knows that it's anticipation tightening her grip. "You've done a lot of stupid things, String," She starts the old argument, "But this..."
The dark girl, almond-shaped brown eyes ablaze with excitement, interrupts with a shrewd "Takes the cake?" anticipating her friend's words, as usual. Her knuckles get a little paler, slim (if calloused) hands tightening, ragged nails sure to leave imprints in her flesh. Her plump mouth twists into a smirk at the aggravated expression on Cal's face. "Chill, babe. I'm good. Harness and everything." Her aquiline nose wrinkles a little, and she briefly tugs at one of the straps of leather attaching her to the handles. Cal's face is still stormy, but the left corner of her mouth twitches traitorously as she claps a hand to her best friend's bare, tan, muscular shoulder.
With that, String is flying.
"WHOOOOO-HOOOOOO!" She shouts, long and loud. The zipline carries her through the less-than-savory section of District Ten so fast that her dark hair falls out of it's loose, messy bun from the wind and flies through the air behind her. She shouts again and laughs, exposing uneven, yellowish teeth. Her lean arms are burning from the strain of holding her weight up.
And then she's falling to Earth. Her smallish feet skid on the gravel, combat boots kicking up rock dust, making her choke a little. The gray dust powders her light blue jeans, but she grins, unaffected. Her round cheeks are flushed and her eyes sparkle instead of burn. She unfastens the harness and sits on the rickety bench not too far from where she stopped to wait for Cal. The blonde enters the culdesac a few minutes later, grinning. "New speed record, I think." She says, despite her earlier apprehension.
String stands up and bows with a flourish. "It's 'cause I rock, babe." A smack to her shoulder rocks her lean, five foot four frame, and she laughs as she catches her balance. Cal deftly drapes her favorite jacket, worn black leather that's she's had for years (and that someone else had for years before) over her shoulders and, when she stills, hooks the thin strap of her signature hematite cross around her neck.
"Let's go back to the warehouse." Cal says with a grin. They both walk off, melting into the shadows as they go.
Yes there are things that I’m still so afraid of.
But my courage is roaring like the sound of the sun.
'Cause it’s vain about its mane and will reveal them to no one.
But my courage is roaring like the sound of the sun.
'Cause it’s vain about its mane and will reveal them to no one.
{Personality}
The boy, thirteen years old, edged into the warehouse, following the brunette who had been suggested as one to find him a place to live. The other teens living in 'her' warehouse called her 'Marmie', and she was known in certain circles as a fair and honest landlady, crook or not.
Marmie turned and grinned at the boy. "S'not much, but it's warm and safe. As long as you don't screw anybody over. That shit ain't alright." He nods, taking in the rule easily.
The smell of the warehouse hits him, cinnamon and sandalwood and vanilla almost masking unwashed bodies and blood. There's a haze of smoke over the whole place, and Marmie shouts "Stop with the fucking incense, Pigeon you shithead!" loud enough to be heard over the general clamor of a large shared dwelling. "Pick a name, new kid, we gotta call you somethin'." She tosses over her shoulder.
"Dash." He says shortly, ignoring her low chuckle. He looks around, taking in the myriad of misfits and hooligans who fill the building. The lanky pale kid with the purple mohawk groping the redheaded girl, the audience gathered around the blonde with the guitar,and the smoke-surrounded boy with the dreadlocks who must be Pigeon are just the tip of the iceburg.
Marmie whirls around and sighs. "Okay. Ask around 'til you find String, she'll show you where you're staying. Don't piss her off. She carries knives. She's probably over there." She points at the guitarist Dash had noticed before.
He warily walks over, listening to the music. "So stand in the rain, stand your ground! Stand up when it's all crashing down. You'll stand through the pain, you won't drown." The blonde's voice rings out strong and clear, her eyes are shut and she's clearly deep in the music.
Dash leans down to whisper in the ear of an audience member. "Where can I find String?" the audience member points wordlessly to the dark-haired girl sitting next to the musician. She's smiling affectionately at the blonde, leaning close. It's been a long time since Dash's seen this much honest adoration on a person's face, and when the blonde opens her eyes and glances over, the same expression blooms across her own face.
Wisely, Dash waits for the song to finish before he trots over and taps String's shoulder. There's no trace of the affectionate girl on her face when she looks at him, and in fact she's cold as anything. "Whadaya want?" she asks grouchily. She's quickly become an angry whirlwind, shooing people away from the couch the musician was sitting on while the aforementioned girl smiles indulgently. Without a pause, The shorter girl plants a kiss on top of the taller's head, then glares at Dash. "Yick, Y chromosome." She huffs.
"Marmie said you'd show me where I'm staying?" He offers timidly.
She growls and tosses her head, "Great, just great. C'mon." She stalks off, stomping her combat boots a little childishly. He follows, more than a bit frightened of this older girl. "Can't stand men, she knows that. Pigs, every last one of you. It's why I prefer humans of the ovaried variety."
Dash isn't really paying attention to her ranting, so he interrupts with
"You're that girl who jumps off roofs!" As he recognizes the reckless thrill-chaser he saw nearly break her neck ziplining the previous week.
She stops walking, turns, and smirks. "Kid, I'm so much more than that." She states. And then she stomps off again.
"What's with the cross?" He asks, in spite of himself, curious about this enraged older girl.
She huffs again. "Full of questions, huh?" a quick glance backwards shows that he really wants to know. "Ugh. S'my Gran's. She was religious."
Dash hesitates just a second. "And... You aren't?"
She snorts. "There's no God, kid. And if there somehow turns out to be, he has a helluva lot to answer for." the bitterness in her voice at this is clear as day.
"So..." He tries to think of his next question. "Is Marmie a friend of your's?"
She shakes her head hard. "I don't have friends. Just one. I owe Marmie a debt."
"The blonde. She's your friend." He declares more than queries.
She turns to him, stopping again. Her smile is a little manic, and her head's a little tilted. "Cal isn't really a friend. She's my mother and my daughter and my sister and my best friend, all wrapped up in a partner-in-crime. Now, can we get to your place?" She doesn't wait for an answer, and Dash tries to take in the whole of her brash, cold, angry self and match it up with how she speaks of the other girl, Cal. He nearly bumps into her as she stops again, abruptly. "Here ya go, Kid. See ya around." she smirks a little and he notices a bright flash of metal from her coat before she's off into the crowd.
I do my best but I'm made of mistakes.
Yes, there are still things I’m still quite sure of.
I love you this hour, this hour today.
Yes, there are still things I’m still quite sure of.
I love you this hour, this hour today.
{History}
The gentle pinch to her arm wakes her. She growls a little but her eyes open to a pair of glimmering sapphire orbs staring out from the dimness of their little corner of the warehouse. "Wassup, Babe?" She asks, voice low and rough.
Cal twists her fingertips in the shoulder of String's T-shirt, whispers "Tell me a story?" And String sighs, because Cal gets like this. She wants stories and they always have to be true.
But this time, String knows exactly what story to tell.
"Well..." She starts, gently maneuvering into a sitting position, not dislodging Cal's grip or complaining when her
"What was the girl's name?" Cal asks softly.
Her breath feels heavy in her chest. "Arachne." she breathes hoarsely, pretending not to notice how awareness returns to Cal's face at the whisper of the name that she's only heard a few times. String licks her lips, clears her throat, and then says, in a stronger voice, "Arachne Isabella McKinnon."
The breathing in her ear is a little fast, and she closes her eyes. Cal taps the back of her hand with a finger, and she continues. "Arachne's father was a mean old drunken farmhand, and her mother was a second-rate seamstress who had no willpower. She gave that mean old drunk three kids before she got some sense and started taking the fucking pill."
"Arachne's sisters..." She trails off a little. "Arachne's sisters were fantastic, when they were all children. They were close, practically inseparable. They lived in a bubble, just the three of them."
Cal smiles a little. "That sounds great. Not being alone." She murmurs. String's mind flashes back to the sad little blonde girl with only dolls to talk to that would come to posses half of her heart.
"Yeah, well... Arachne's dad died when she was five." She mutters bluntly, unapologetic as always. "Drank himself to death. They found him dead in the bathroom lying in his own puke. He breathed it, wrecked his lungs. The girls weren't sad to see him go." She shook her head to ward off the image of the stumpy white headstone, the etching proclaiming that Blake McKinnon, aged 28, was dead. Gran had laughed bitterly looking at the part that said he was a beloved husband and father. "Their mother jumped off a roof six months later when she lost her job. Poor little Trista just couldn't stick around for the girls she brought into this world. They weren't important enough." She let bitterness leak into her voice at this part. She hadn't ever been close to her mother, but fuck.
A little smile spread across her face as she thought of the next bit of her history. "Arachne and her sisters moved in with their Gran next. Her name was Ada. She tried her best to make sure they were all happy and healthy, and she didn't take anybody's shit." She grins wider, picturing her Gran, dancing around the house, braiding little Rachel's hair, giving Harley boy advice, fingers on String's cheek after a nightmare. The grin falls. "I- er, Arachne, doesn't know what happened to her."
She took a deep breath, bracing herself to relive a betrayal that still stung. "Harley, Arachne's oldest sister, ran away when Arachne was nine. Nobody knew why, she was only thirteen years old. Arachne and her younger sister, Rachel, were devastated." She bites her lip, remembering the startling emptiness in the house, Rachel's tear-streaked face and babbles of "She just left she had a suitcase I couldn't stop her I'm sorry I'm sorry." The familiar pit of anger boiled in the pit of her stomach. She gritted her teeth and continued. "Eventually... Arachne just couldn't stay. She took off with one of her Gran's necklaces and a coil of rope and a few throwing knives of her dearly departed Grandfather's. She knew it was wrong..."
She took a rattling breath, in and out and in and out. "She knew it was wrong. But she just couldn't. So she ran away and she lived on the streets and she looked for Harley... Until she met a girl." She squeezed Cal's shoulder. "The most wonderful, fantastic girl who ever existed. She plays guitar and she sings and her family was wonderful. She played with dolls instead of people. And when her father died Arachne took her and they ran away and found a palace full of smoke and dreams and there they stayed." A quick look at Cal's face reveals a wide grin.
A sigh, a blonde head shifting to get more comfortable on her shoulder. "And there they stayed." She agrees.
The morning finds the Runaway and the Musician sleeping curled together on the couch, the weight of their pasts a suffocating blanket that won't ever be lifted away. But this morning, it all seems a little lighter.
odair
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