strawberry and whipped cream
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Revolutionaries
Rating: PG
Challenge: Strawberry #13: smoke
Toppings/Extras: whipped cream
Wordcount: 605
Summary: Simmins quotes Rousseau, not that he knows it.
Notes: This has been lying around for a while… it’s a chance to show off my new lovely icon of course. ;)
Simmins was out on the balcony, shoulders hunched forwards, leaning on the rail. He seemed to really like it there, though Pia couldn’t for the life of her figure out why. There wasn’t a lot to see. They were on the third floor; the Smog was opaque above them, a constant thunderous mist, tonight reflecting dark brown-hiding the stretching skyscrapers from view. It was dark and beneath them and people scurried about on their own shady businesses.
With a scamper and a skip, Pia joined him, hands wrapping around the banister-she kicked herself upwards a little for no real reason other than the lazy thrill of momentary danger before landing back on the balls of her feet. Then she turned to Simmins, smiling.
“Thinkin’?” she asked, a little teasingly. It was dark out but lights from the windows all around them meant that she could see his too-long hair, his black eye. Despite the injury, the blue of his irises were as bright as ever.
“Somethin’ like that,” he grimaced. Reaching into a pocket of his battered jeans, he brought out some tobacco gear and began rolling himself a cigarette. “I’ll tell you somethin’, pup, don’t you ever go getting’ involved with those gangs.”
“Aw, this again.” Pia pretended to yawn and slumped over the rusty railing, resting her chin on the back of her hands, staring down at the grimy streets below. “Why not?”
“You don’t want nothin’ to do with ‘em,” Simmins said in a low voice. He rolled the cigarette idly between his thumb and forefinger, still unlit, rizla crackling. “They own everythin’, see? The buildin’s, the weapons, the people.”
“Yeah, so it’s way easier to just work with ‘em,” the sixteen-year-old replied, rolling her eyes and scratching her head through her thick red curls.
“Man was born free, and he is everywhere in chains,” Simmins said slowly. “Some clever bloke down the causeway said that to me. We was talkin’, see. He’s better at thinkin’ than I am. But we’re on the same wavelength.”
“Sure,” Pia snorted.
“Hey, you know I don’t do nothin’ for the gangs,” Simmins said, beginning to pat down his pockets for a lighter. “I make my own way and it’s workin’ fine. There’s not many that’re not tied up in them. We’re little revolutionaries, us two.”
Grinning, Pia swung back and forth on the bar separating her from a sheer drop.
“Yeah, Sim, you are for real,” she smirked. “Ain’t your fence a Firebird boy?”
“He does some fencin’ for ‘em sometimes,” Simmins said indifferently. “But I have a moveable talent, see.”
“Been talkin’ a lot with this feller, have you?”
“I steal, I sell, it’s a livin’. He’d give me more money if I was in on a gang but I don’t go for that. It’s dangerous, see. Things are kickin’ off. I don’t never want you involved with ‘em, OK?”
“Everyone’s involved with ‘em, they’re part of everything!”
“This place is a bloody shambles,” Simmins muttered, pinching his cigarette between his lips and lighting up precisely. He inhaled slowly and then let the smoke pour from between his lips.
“Dirty habit,” Pia commented.
“True. Don’t you ever start, kid.”
“Don’t call me kid! And why’d you start if it’s so fuckin’ terrible?”
“Language,” Simmins replied first, who broke into people’s houses for a living but would hate to see young Pia swearing. Then he moved onto her question. “I heard it takes the edge off hunger.”
“An’ does it?”
“I can’t really tell.”
“Sounds like a great life,” Pia grinned, “bein’ a revolutionary.”
“It sure is,” he replied, and meant every word.
Title: Revolutionaries
Rating: PG
Challenge: Strawberry #13: smoke
Toppings/Extras: whipped cream
Wordcount: 605
Summary: Simmins quotes Rousseau, not that he knows it.
Notes: This has been lying around for a while… it’s a chance to show off my new lovely icon of course. ;)
Simmins was out on the balcony, shoulders hunched forwards, leaning on the rail. He seemed to really like it there, though Pia couldn’t for the life of her figure out why. There wasn’t a lot to see. They were on the third floor; the Smog was opaque above them, a constant thunderous mist, tonight reflecting dark brown-hiding the stretching skyscrapers from view. It was dark and beneath them and people scurried about on their own shady businesses.
With a scamper and a skip, Pia joined him, hands wrapping around the banister-she kicked herself upwards a little for no real reason other than the lazy thrill of momentary danger before landing back on the balls of her feet. Then she turned to Simmins, smiling.
“Thinkin’?” she asked, a little teasingly. It was dark out but lights from the windows all around them meant that she could see his too-long hair, his black eye. Despite the injury, the blue of his irises were as bright as ever.
“Somethin’ like that,” he grimaced. Reaching into a pocket of his battered jeans, he brought out some tobacco gear and began rolling himself a cigarette. “I’ll tell you somethin’, pup, don’t you ever go getting’ involved with those gangs.”
“Aw, this again.” Pia pretended to yawn and slumped over the rusty railing, resting her chin on the back of her hands, staring down at the grimy streets below. “Why not?”
“You don’t want nothin’ to do with ‘em,” Simmins said in a low voice. He rolled the cigarette idly between his thumb and forefinger, still unlit, rizla crackling. “They own everythin’, see? The buildin’s, the weapons, the people.”
“Yeah, so it’s way easier to just work with ‘em,” the sixteen-year-old replied, rolling her eyes and scratching her head through her thick red curls.
“Man was born free, and he is everywhere in chains,” Simmins said slowly. “Some clever bloke down the causeway said that to me. We was talkin’, see. He’s better at thinkin’ than I am. But we’re on the same wavelength.”
“Sure,” Pia snorted.
“Hey, you know I don’t do nothin’ for the gangs,” Simmins said, beginning to pat down his pockets for a lighter. “I make my own way and it’s workin’ fine. There’s not many that’re not tied up in them. We’re little revolutionaries, us two.”
Grinning, Pia swung back and forth on the bar separating her from a sheer drop.
“Yeah, Sim, you are for real,” she smirked. “Ain’t your fence a Firebird boy?”
“He does some fencin’ for ‘em sometimes,” Simmins said indifferently. “But I have a moveable talent, see.”
“Been talkin’ a lot with this feller, have you?”
“I steal, I sell, it’s a livin’. He’d give me more money if I was in on a gang but I don’t go for that. It’s dangerous, see. Things are kickin’ off. I don’t never want you involved with ‘em, OK?”
“Everyone’s involved with ‘em, they’re part of everything!”
“This place is a bloody shambles,” Simmins muttered, pinching his cigarette between his lips and lighting up precisely. He inhaled slowly and then let the smoke pour from between his lips.
“Dirty habit,” Pia commented.
“True. Don’t you ever start, kid.”
“Don’t call me kid! And why’d you start if it’s so fuckin’ terrible?”
“Language,” Simmins replied first, who broke into people’s houses for a living but would hate to see young Pia swearing. Then he moved onto her question. “I heard it takes the edge off hunger.”
“An’ does it?”
“I can’t really tell.”
“Sounds like a great life,” Pia grinned, “bein’ a revolutionary.”
“It sure is,” he replied, and meant every word.