(no subject)
These fifteen minute fics are really fun. Quite a workout.
Title: The Bomb and the Park
Fandom/Original: Original
Characters: Myra Considine
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 548
Time Taken: 15:23 (and then about three minutes of small editing and tweaking).
A/N: Hope you enjoy.
She knows instinctively that this is a death wish.
...at this point, though, she doesn’t care.
They tell her this park is deadly at night, and Myra knows it in her bones, feels it in the wind and the still, unmoving branches of the trees.
But she has to get home quickly, and with the recent curfews and arrests, she needs to avoid the well-frequented streets as much as possible. They’ll be hunting for her.
And she knows she doesn’t want to get caught.
It wasn’t the editorial she wrote in the Alamose Tribune that threatened her life. And it wasn’t her photographs that were submitted four months previously, uncovering the corruption at its core.
It was the fact that Myra survived the car bombing yesterday. The fact that she knew what was going on, stepped into the car, turned the ignition...
And didn’t die.
Reports tell her that she should’ve been baked human female, roasting at 400 degrees fahrenheit and deader than road kill.
But reports didn’t tell her what she already knew.
Myra isn’t exactly human.
She hears the footsteps behind her before they come, blatant, sure of their power and their ability to strike fear into her.
She considers playing the game - acting frightened and picking up her pace, trying to be discreet about glancing over her shoulder and then allowing the prey to feel the chase run through their bones by breaking off into a sprint. But then Myra realizes that she’s sick of playing.
She’s been playing for the last thirty-two years of her life.
And Myra isn’t exactly human.
She makes her decision five seconds after she originally heard the patter of feet of pockmarked concrete. And Myra stops.
Dead.
Still as a stone.
A blatant advertisement: Here is fresh meat.
The footsteps aren’t quite sure about this, but, after a nanosecond’s pause, jump towards her.
An arm hugs Myra’s throat, a gun hitches towards her ear. A young voice (too young to be doing this, she thinks distantly) hisses suddenly in her ear, threatening death and mayhem.
“You move,” it says, “you die.”
Myra considers this for a long moment, before taking a deep breath.
She isn’t exactly human.
The young voice might’ve wanted to know this.
Quicksilver, speed beyond human comprehension. Myra’s right hand lunges back and grabs the gun, in the same step as she steps around, the twirl of death, and breaks the boy’s grip.
There’s a muffled grunt of surprise from the boy, but she doesn’t give him anymore time, kicking out with a heel and striking him solidly in the gut.
The boy falls onto the dim pavement, the moonlight blanketing him in a shroud.
And now Myra holds the gun solidly in both hands, basic Weaver position with the safety off.
The two regard each other for a long moment.
And then Myra speaks.
“Not exactly what you had in mind, is it?”
He looks at her one second longer before unfreezing, body peeling off from the pavement as he backpedals, frantically trying to escape.
She gives him a twenty-second head start, wanting to make sure he’s well out of the park, before she turns in the opposite direction and
runs herself.
Myra isn’t exactly human.
There’s no doubt, now, that the boy knows this.
Prompt: Blatant
Title: The Bomb and the Park
Fandom/Original: Original
Characters: Myra Considine
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 548
Time Taken: 15:23 (and then about three minutes of small editing and tweaking).
A/N: Hope you enjoy.
She knows instinctively that this is a death wish.
...at this point, though, she doesn’t care.
They tell her this park is deadly at night, and Myra knows it in her bones, feels it in the wind and the still, unmoving branches of the trees.
But she has to get home quickly, and with the recent curfews and arrests, she needs to avoid the well-frequented streets as much as possible. They’ll be hunting for her.
And she knows she doesn’t want to get caught.
It wasn’t the editorial she wrote in the Alamose Tribune that threatened her life. And it wasn’t her photographs that were submitted four months previously, uncovering the corruption at its core.
It was the fact that Myra survived the car bombing yesterday. The fact that she knew what was going on, stepped into the car, turned the ignition...
And didn’t die.
Reports tell her that she should’ve been baked human female, roasting at 400 degrees fahrenheit and deader than road kill.
But reports didn’t tell her what she already knew.
Myra isn’t exactly human.
She hears the footsteps behind her before they come, blatant, sure of their power and their ability to strike fear into her.
She considers playing the game - acting frightened and picking up her pace, trying to be discreet about glancing over her shoulder and then allowing the prey to feel the chase run through their bones by breaking off into a sprint. But then Myra realizes that she’s sick of playing.
She’s been playing for the last thirty-two years of her life.
And Myra isn’t exactly human.
She makes her decision five seconds after she originally heard the patter of feet of pockmarked concrete. And Myra stops.
Dead.
Still as a stone.
A blatant advertisement: Here is fresh meat.
The footsteps aren’t quite sure about this, but, after a nanosecond’s pause, jump towards her.
An arm hugs Myra’s throat, a gun hitches towards her ear. A young voice (too young to be doing this, she thinks distantly) hisses suddenly in her ear, threatening death and mayhem.
“You move,” it says, “you die.”
Myra considers this for a long moment, before taking a deep breath.
She isn’t exactly human.
The young voice might’ve wanted to know this.
Quicksilver, speed beyond human comprehension. Myra’s right hand lunges back and grabs the gun, in the same step as she steps around, the twirl of death, and breaks the boy’s grip.
There’s a muffled grunt of surprise from the boy, but she doesn’t give him anymore time, kicking out with a heel and striking him solidly in the gut.
The boy falls onto the dim pavement, the moonlight blanketing him in a shroud.
And now Myra holds the gun solidly in both hands, basic Weaver position with the safety off.
The two regard each other for a long moment.
And then Myra speaks.
“Not exactly what you had in mind, is it?”
He looks at her one second longer before unfreezing, body peeling off from the pavement as he backpedals, frantically trying to escape.
She gives him a twenty-second head start, wanting to make sure he’s well out of the park, before she turns in the opposite direction and
runs herself.
Myra isn’t exactly human.
There’s no doubt, now, that the boy knows this.
Prompt: Blatant