for piig
Cam ficlet.
Prize was no fucking city of angels. It was a city like any other, if prettier than most, with baskets of flowers dangling from the streetlamps and climbing vines that turned red in the fall. But it was a city full of humans, and some humans sucked, so there was trash lying around 'till the cleaners came by at fuck-o-clock in the morning. There were people who treated other people like prey and there were people fucked up or fucked over and living with nothing in the gutters. Cam walked past like everyone else, but it pissed him off. Not like he was rich, not like he could or would float them all even if he were--but what the fuck.
He'd feed someone occassionally. Drizzly 9 pm, wind and wet and the encroaching winter dark turning his city into a ghost town. An old derelict with rheumy eyes and steady, cracked hands, slumped in a doorway. Grey, ratty toque pulled low over his face. Cam didn't talk to anyone, mostly--not that he was unfriendly (okay, sometimes he was, and all the metal in his face just exaggerated his expressions, until what he thought of as a puzzled look got all the reactions of a scowl), but what was there to say? Sucks to be you? So he stepped into the 7-11, bought a sandwhich and a water, leaned over to pass them off, when--
"Heh, hey, that's one way to get it up," the old man said. Cam reared up, damn near dropped the bottle. Pissed, he plonked the water and the sandwhich next to the guy's knee and turned to leave.
A burst of choppy, hoarse laughter. "The hair! Never seen anyone string their hair up before. Must save a bunch on gel." The old guy lifted the sandwhich in salute, and set about unwrapping it. Cam wiped his face--fucking rain, months of it, all winter long-- and gave the guy a quizzical scowl. He propped against the wall. Rain loved the hawk-- water beaded on the stiffened crest, ran down the spine of it to trickle along his scalp. Good thing it was a black-beater day--as it was, he was sure there'd be trails of orange and blue along his scalp when he got home. The old guy ate half of the sandwhich before he met Cam's gaze. Cam just gave him a patient glare. Eventually, the old guy said, "What are you, a sponge? Stop hovering."
Everyone dealt with life differently. Fucking inane thing to say. But Randall would have rolled his eyes and huffed off, and forgotten the whole thing. Trevor would have stumbled on words, stammered, used those big eyes and asked for a favour. Shae would lean close, smirk, and charm or intimidate the information right out of the old broken-down wreck.
Cam said, "How much Threadwork do you know? Anything useful?"
The eyes were a milky blue, but Cam figured the old guy could see just fine. He showed Cam his teeth, the gaps and thick buildup. He said, "One thing, is all. Not terribly useful."
Cam cocked his head. "Anything can be useful. Wanna show me?"
Old guy shrugged, primly wrapped the back half of the sandwhich and stowed it away in a plastic bag that said thankyou for shopping!. He held up his hands, showing first the backs with their cracked, grimy knuckles, then the horny palms. He pinched the air and gave a delicate tweak, and Cam's mohawk collapsed into a limp, wet tangle. Cam squawked and grabbed at it, hastily stiffened it right back up. He gave the old guy an evil glare, then said, "It's not supposed to work like that."
An expansive shrug. "On some level, this string and that string are the same, or remember being the same. That means if you yank this one properly, that one will think you yanked it. Like so," And he demonstrated again, flicking his finger as if shooing a fly, and the candy wrapper by Cam's feet flipped itself inside out.
Cam raised his eyebrows. "Huh," he said. He plucked a thread, sent a watery ripple through the air. He tried again, pulling one thread but aiming at another, and this time the ripple occured a good foot to the right of the string he'd pulled.
"That's it," The old guy said. "Give that a go, little at a time. Only parlour trick I've ever been good for."
Cam cocked an eyebrow at the guy. "Want another sandwhich?"
God, those teeth. Disgusting. "This'll hold me for today. I wouldn't mind some quiet, though, if you're offering."
"Suit yourself. Thanks," Cam said, lifting one shoulder, and walked out into the pattering rain. Night was never truly dark, here, yellow streetlights, orange streetlights, neon signs. Shae wound up being happy enough with the 'fo, and Cam was smug to be able to show her up, for once. He went back a few days later with a question about the new trick, but the old guy was gone.
Prize was no fucking city of angels. It was a city like any other, if prettier than most, with baskets of flowers dangling from the streetlamps and climbing vines that turned red in the fall. But it was a city full of humans, and some humans sucked, so there was trash lying around 'till the cleaners came by at fuck-o-clock in the morning. There were people who treated other people like prey and there were people fucked up or fucked over and living with nothing in the gutters. Cam walked past like everyone else, but it pissed him off. Not like he was rich, not like he could or would float them all even if he were--but what the fuck.
He'd feed someone occassionally. Drizzly 9 pm, wind and wet and the encroaching winter dark turning his city into a ghost town. An old derelict with rheumy eyes and steady, cracked hands, slumped in a doorway. Grey, ratty toque pulled low over his face. Cam didn't talk to anyone, mostly--not that he was unfriendly (okay, sometimes he was, and all the metal in his face just exaggerated his expressions, until what he thought of as a puzzled look got all the reactions of a scowl), but what was there to say? Sucks to be you? So he stepped into the 7-11, bought a sandwhich and a water, leaned over to pass them off, when--
"Heh, hey, that's one way to get it up," the old man said. Cam reared up, damn near dropped the bottle. Pissed, he plonked the water and the sandwhich next to the guy's knee and turned to leave.
A burst of choppy, hoarse laughter. "The hair! Never seen anyone string their hair up before. Must save a bunch on gel." The old guy lifted the sandwhich in salute, and set about unwrapping it. Cam wiped his face--fucking rain, months of it, all winter long-- and gave the guy a quizzical scowl. He propped against the wall. Rain loved the hawk-- water beaded on the stiffened crest, ran down the spine of it to trickle along his scalp. Good thing it was a black-beater day--as it was, he was sure there'd be trails of orange and blue along his scalp when he got home. The old guy ate half of the sandwhich before he met Cam's gaze. Cam just gave him a patient glare. Eventually, the old guy said, "What are you, a sponge? Stop hovering."
Everyone dealt with life differently. Fucking inane thing to say. But Randall would have rolled his eyes and huffed off, and forgotten the whole thing. Trevor would have stumbled on words, stammered, used those big eyes and asked for a favour. Shae would lean close, smirk, and charm or intimidate the information right out of the old broken-down wreck.
Cam said, "How much Threadwork do you know? Anything useful?"
The eyes were a milky blue, but Cam figured the old guy could see just fine. He showed Cam his teeth, the gaps and thick buildup. He said, "One thing, is all. Not terribly useful."
Cam cocked his head. "Anything can be useful. Wanna show me?"
Old guy shrugged, primly wrapped the back half of the sandwhich and stowed it away in a plastic bag that said thankyou for shopping!. He held up his hands, showing first the backs with their cracked, grimy knuckles, then the horny palms. He pinched the air and gave a delicate tweak, and Cam's mohawk collapsed into a limp, wet tangle. Cam squawked and grabbed at it, hastily stiffened it right back up. He gave the old guy an evil glare, then said, "It's not supposed to work like that."
An expansive shrug. "On some level, this string and that string are the same, or remember being the same. That means if you yank this one properly, that one will think you yanked it. Like so," And he demonstrated again, flicking his finger as if shooing a fly, and the candy wrapper by Cam's feet flipped itself inside out.
Cam raised his eyebrows. "Huh," he said. He plucked a thread, sent a watery ripple through the air. He tried again, pulling one thread but aiming at another, and this time the ripple occured a good foot to the right of the string he'd pulled.
"That's it," The old guy said. "Give that a go, little at a time. Only parlour trick I've ever been good for."
Cam cocked an eyebrow at the guy. "Want another sandwhich?"
God, those teeth. Disgusting. "This'll hold me for today. I wouldn't mind some quiet, though, if you're offering."
"Suit yourself. Thanks," Cam said, lifting one shoulder, and walked out into the pattering rain. Night was never truly dark, here, yellow streetlights, orange streetlights, neon signs. Shae wound up being happy enough with the 'fo, and Cam was smug to be able to show her up, for once. He went back a few days later with a question about the new trick, but the old guy was gone.