Original - “After the Lightning”
Title: After the Lightning
Universe: Menagerie
Prompt: “storm”, from pulped_fictions
Wordcount: 500
Genre: General/Supernatural
Rating/Warnings: K+
Summary: Stan encounters someone who shouldn’t exist.
Author’s Notes: Another character from Menagerie, one I haven’t yet introduced in any of the other pieces. Meet Toni. Also, there are some hints about the premise and backstory.
It’s been raining in fickle bursts all day, gray clouds roiling in the sky, and the thin boy in the damp cloak looks like an easy target. He’s going somewhere, hurrying through the pools of light under streetlamps and lingering in the shadows, and he’s young, dark-haired, and pretty.
When he turns into an alleyway, Stan slips after, thinking that maybe he won’t even have to resort to force - maybe he can intimidate the boy into handing over his backpack. He can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen, after all.
He slips into the alleyway after, and his hope turns sour - the boy’s curled up in a corner with his bag, cloak wrapped around his narrow shoulders. Homeless, then; he probably has nothing worth stealing. As Stan watches, though, he pulls up his sleeves and removes the leather arm-guards he’s wearing, massaging his wrists - and Stan just stares, because the inner layer of the arm-guards is smooth gold.
He approaches, mesmerized, suddenly overwhelmingly curious about what’s in that bag. The boy seems to sense him, though, looking up sharply and rising fluidly to his feet. His shoulders are tense, and rainwater has stuck several locks of black hair to his white face; the rest is sticking up. He looks wary but, insultingly, not scared.
Stan has never found a way to tell someone they’re being robbed that doesn’t feel awkward, so instead, he just pulls out his knife and lets its presence do the talking for him.
The boy freezes. Stan takes one menacing step closer, two-
It’s shocking how quickly the boy moves, how quickly Stan finds his arm twisted down and his own blade inches from his face. Initially, all he can think is What, and How, but then he sees where the boy’s sleeve has slipped down his pale wrist, the markings the bracer covered. They’re intricate and beautiful, and seeing them outside the pages of a book is too surreal to be frightening.
“You’re a sorcerer,” he says hoarsely, unable to take his eyes off the tattoo, wondering what family, what he’s doing here, how he even exists. It’s like meeting something from a fairy story. “I thought all the sorcerers were dead.”
The boy’s eyes flicker downwards and up again, then darken. He lifts his other hand and reaches for Stan’s face.
“Wait!” Stan says, suddenly remembering how to be afraid. “Don’t kill me, please, I swear-”
“I’m not going to kill you,” the boy says, softly and with some contempt. He cups the side of Stan’s face in his hand - his palm is cool. Thunder rumbles somewhere overhead. “Sleep.”
“Don’t,” Stan mumbles, drowsiness overwhelming him. “Tell me- which family-?”
“You won’t remember,” the boy says quietly. Rain is falling again. “But I’m a Serpentyne.”
When he wakes up with sunlight beating at his eyelids, Stan wonders what he’s doing lying in an alleyway, and blinks as the last silken shreds of the dream he can’t quite remember slither softly and soundlessly from his senses.
Universe: Menagerie
Prompt: “storm”, from pulped_fictions
Wordcount: 500
Genre: General/Supernatural
Rating/Warnings: K+
Summary: Stan encounters someone who shouldn’t exist.
Author’s Notes: Another character from Menagerie, one I haven’t yet introduced in any of the other pieces. Meet Toni. Also, there are some hints about the premise and backstory.
It’s been raining in fickle bursts all day, gray clouds roiling in the sky, and the thin boy in the damp cloak looks like an easy target. He’s going somewhere, hurrying through the pools of light under streetlamps and lingering in the shadows, and he’s young, dark-haired, and pretty.
When he turns into an alleyway, Stan slips after, thinking that maybe he won’t even have to resort to force - maybe he can intimidate the boy into handing over his backpack. He can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen, after all.
He slips into the alleyway after, and his hope turns sour - the boy’s curled up in a corner with his bag, cloak wrapped around his narrow shoulders. Homeless, then; he probably has nothing worth stealing. As Stan watches, though, he pulls up his sleeves and removes the leather arm-guards he’s wearing, massaging his wrists - and Stan just stares, because the inner layer of the arm-guards is smooth gold.
He approaches, mesmerized, suddenly overwhelmingly curious about what’s in that bag. The boy seems to sense him, though, looking up sharply and rising fluidly to his feet. His shoulders are tense, and rainwater has stuck several locks of black hair to his white face; the rest is sticking up. He looks wary but, insultingly, not scared.
Stan has never found a way to tell someone they’re being robbed that doesn’t feel awkward, so instead, he just pulls out his knife and lets its presence do the talking for him.
The boy freezes. Stan takes one menacing step closer, two-
It’s shocking how quickly the boy moves, how quickly Stan finds his arm twisted down and his own blade inches from his face. Initially, all he can think is What, and How, but then he sees where the boy’s sleeve has slipped down his pale wrist, the markings the bracer covered. They’re intricate and beautiful, and seeing them outside the pages of a book is too surreal to be frightening.
“You’re a sorcerer,” he says hoarsely, unable to take his eyes off the tattoo, wondering what family, what he’s doing here, how he even exists. It’s like meeting something from a fairy story. “I thought all the sorcerers were dead.”
The boy’s eyes flicker downwards and up again, then darken. He lifts his other hand and reaches for Stan’s face.
“Wait!” Stan says, suddenly remembering how to be afraid. “Don’t kill me, please, I swear-”
“I’m not going to kill you,” the boy says, softly and with some contempt. He cups the side of Stan’s face in his hand - his palm is cool. Thunder rumbles somewhere overhead. “Sleep.”
“Don’t,” Stan mumbles, drowsiness overwhelming him. “Tell me- which family-?”
“You won’t remember,” the boy says quietly. Rain is falling again. “But I’m a Serpentyne.”
When he wakes up with sunlight beating at his eyelids, Stan wonders what he’s doing lying in an alleyway, and blinks as the last silken shreds of the dream he can’t quite remember slither softly and soundlessly from his senses.