REMIX:Fade Out (The meant to be Remix)
Original Fic: Fade Out, by kindkit
Remix: Fade Out (The meant to be Remix)
Angel
double drabble
character death
Angel is copyrighted to Joss Whedon. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction
This is how Black men always die.
Every damn movie he watched with his sister and his mom (when they had electricity), the Black guy always bites it in some dead end alley.
What a fucking metaphor.
When his people are fighting for their lives and their homes, they die in abandoned factories, and in burnt out shops.
Blood stains on dirty streets.
Gunn doesn't see any other way out for himself. This is just how things work down here.
When he's in a corner office with his own secretary, wearing Armani and with the collected works of Abbot and Costello (plus a law degree) crammed into his brain, he's as far from those dead end streets as it's humanly possible to get. But he never stops thinking he won't still die on one.
When Gunn thinks about how he's going out, it's always with a weapon in hand, fighting, on the streets he was raised on.
When the time comes, it's just like he knew it would be. Blood splattering on the pavement, washed away like he never was, following the rain into the gutters. Another Black man forgotten before the sun has even risen.
Maybe he was always meant to die like this.
Remix: Fade Out (The meant to be Remix)
Angel
double drabble
character death
Angel is copyrighted to Joss Whedon. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction
This is how Black men always die.
Every damn movie he watched with his sister and his mom (when they had electricity), the Black guy always bites it in some dead end alley.
What a fucking metaphor.
When his people are fighting for their lives and their homes, they die in abandoned factories, and in burnt out shops.
Blood stains on dirty streets.
Gunn doesn't see any other way out for himself. This is just how things work down here.
When he's in a corner office with his own secretary, wearing Armani and with the collected works of Abbot and Costello (plus a law degree) crammed into his brain, he's as far from those dead end streets as it's humanly possible to get. But he never stops thinking he won't still die on one.
When Gunn thinks about how he's going out, it's always with a weapon in hand, fighting, on the streets he was raised on.
When the time comes, it's just like he knew it would be. Blood splattering on the pavement, washed away like he never was, following the rain into the gutters. Another Black man forgotten before the sun has even risen.
Maybe he was always meant to die like this.