(no subject)
There are -
There are ways this is supposed to work. An order to things. A fucking -
She isn't the one who gets snatched, not anymore. She isn't supposed to be. This is wrong. All wrong, like goody-two-shoes and a smile wrong.
The tension spidercracks up her arms until she has to shake her shoulders to shake it off; she hisses in misspent irritation and a slim flicker of yellow throbs for a moment against the callused skin of her palm.
Where? Stop. Look. Listen, listen, listen; close your eyes and listen instead of screaming out, like the universe hates you and is your own personal penance for a fucked-up origin story. That's it.
This is not the world she just left. The ground fights her, here, at first, and then it knows her, and obeys. It tells her of carnage and pain and creatures with claws and barking maws. It tells her through the ground that those creatures are still here. Spiderweb fractures in the ground, this place is feral, this place is murder city at ground zero. There is blood on the ground and it knows it. A feral city, broken and decaying. Scared hearts profaning the perfect violence of mother nature: oh, there are people here.
She makes a note of this and opens her eyes, slow. If she needs them, she'll go find them, pretend she got lost, doesn't know anything. They will take her in because she is very good at being normal when she needs to be. The way home is through them, through their mouths and through their corpses, and she is not so stupid as to think everyone will just tell her what she needs to know to survive.
Tara Markov straightens up, eyes bright under her shaggy hair, and walks into murdered Las Vegas with what might almost be anticipation.
There are ways this is supposed to work. An order to things. A fucking -
She isn't the one who gets snatched, not anymore. She isn't supposed to be. This is wrong. All wrong, like goody-two-shoes and a smile wrong.
The tension spidercracks up her arms until she has to shake her shoulders to shake it off; she hisses in misspent irritation and a slim flicker of yellow throbs for a moment against the callused skin of her palm.
Where? Stop. Look. Listen, listen, listen; close your eyes and listen instead of screaming out, like the universe hates you and is your own personal penance for a fucked-up origin story. That's it.
This is not the world she just left. The ground fights her, here, at first, and then it knows her, and obeys. It tells her of carnage and pain and creatures with claws and barking maws. It tells her through the ground that those creatures are still here. Spiderweb fractures in the ground, this place is feral, this place is murder city at ground zero. There is blood on the ground and it knows it. A feral city, broken and decaying. Scared hearts profaning the perfect violence of mother nature: oh, there are people here.
She makes a note of this and opens her eyes, slow. If she needs them, she'll go find them, pretend she got lost, doesn't know anything. They will take her in because she is very good at being normal when she needs to be. The way home is through them, through their mouths and through their corpses, and she is not so stupid as to think everyone will just tell her what she needs to know to survive.
Tara Markov straightens up, eyes bright under her shaggy hair, and walks into murdered Las Vegas with what might almost be anticipation.