Fic--The Losers
Title: The Losers
Rating: PG---One swear word.
Pairing/Characters: Misha Collins, two OFC's
Notes: This is something I felt I needed to write after GISHWHES ended. It showed up in my head and wouldn't leave until I posted it. If you didn't join GISHWHES you probably won't understand any of this, except that the girls are insane. You might still get a chuckle out of it, though. :D
Disclaimer: Misha Collins is a real person, and I don't own him. Sarah and Marcella are totally mine though.
Summary: Marcella and Sarah might be insane. It's not that bad, though.
It was night time on the very nice, very clean street.
She stood under the tree and stared across the street at the nice but pretentious looking house, her chest heaving with every deep, ragged breath. There. There was where her revenge would take place.
People seeing her would think she was insane and possibly homeless. Her hair was lank and mussed and had a one-inch strip of it missing down the centre of her head, which she hadn’t even tried to hide. It was a dark brown colour and seemed to flap around her head like an injured bird in the strong wind. A piece of bright red ribbon was caught in it and almost looked as if it were trying to escape this woman, who’s eyes were rimmed with red and haunted by sleeplessness.
She smelt strongly of bacon, and if one looked closely they would be able to see a piece of it dried to the skin just above her collarbone. A tuft of grey dog fur clung to her right sleeve stubbornly, as if taped on.
She raised her left hand, and the streetlight glinted off something suspiciously golden. There were small points of black dotting the surface, but this insane girl was very clearly holding a plunger covered in gold. She wiggled it experimentally and smiled at the now-familiar weight of it in her hand. This would be the instrument of his demise. This would be how she took her revenge.
She straightened her business suit and almost began to jog in place, but bit back the urge at the last second.
There was a soft rustling sound to her left as another girl pushed her way through some low bushes. A muffled bleet sounded in the night air as the newcomer huffed out a breath through the bright pink vuvuzela she had clamped between her lips. One hand was nervously tapping against her thigh. It was an irregular but noticeable pattern. She had short, blonde hair with ‘<3 GISHWHES’ shaved clumsily into the left side, exposing pale white scalp. She too looked on the verge of a mental collapse. She said something around the mouth of the plastic instrument, but it was impossible to tell what.
The brunette nodded. “I know. But it’s definitely his house.” She brushed absently at her hair, frowning as her fingers reached the bald patch. “I managed to sneak on set as a PA and convince one of the producers I was his cousin from England, and then find some mail in his trailer. This is his address.”
The blonde trumpeted victoriously.
“Shhh!” the other girl scolded lightly. “Now, we need a way to get into the house.”
The blonde reached into a battered Prada handbag and pulled out a large, lumpy, brown loaf of bread. There were deep gouges in the hard crust, long vertical wounds in the coating along the sides. She tapped its surface with one fingernail and it made a loud crunching sound.
“Great idea Marcella!” The other girl took the bread loaf in hand and began tromping towards the house, eyes fixed on a large picture window on the side. She slowed when she got closer, Marcella by her side.
“Protective gear?” She asked, and Marcella reached into her handbag once again and handed her friend a blue sock-monkey hat. The brunette pulled hers on while her friend pulled out a twin.
“It fits weird.”
Marcella’s response was once again impossible to comprehend, but the girl with the bacon on her collarbone looked sad.
“Ice sculptures would be hard to get a hat on, yeah… That sucks, man. I’m sorry.”
The blonde looked sad as she tugged her own hat over her ears.
The two women looked in the window cautiously. The room was nicely furnished and classy, with hardwood floors and a large sofa dominating the room. A picture of a blonde woman holding a small, smiling baby while standing next to a dark-haired man with bright blue eyes took up most of one wall.
Marcella muttered something, and her friend nodded.
“I agree. Total bastard.”
She pulled back her arm and pitched the hard bread at the window, shattering the pane into pieces. It bounced once on the floor and then rolled under a glass side table before stopping. Shrill beeps filled the air as the alarm went off.
They quickly climbed in through the now-shattered window, Marcella running with light steps to the alarm and pulling a sheet of paper from the back pocket of her jeans. Her fingernails were a harsh black colour, but the polish seemed lumpy and undignified as she scrabbled at a piece of paper. She unfolded it and began scouring the written instructions before punching a few numbers into the rapidly flashing pad.
The beeping shut off right away, and the girl gave a blast from her vuvuzela as a sign of relief.
“Good job, darling.” The other girl opened a small camera and turned it to face her, sock monkey hat and all. She clicked record and began to speak.
“Hello, 207. Sarah here. Marcella and I have used our impressive scavenger hunt powers to find and break into his house. Mama bear and baby bear are on a mother-baby retreat for the weekend, so there’s little chance of us being interrupted. We’re going to make camp in the closet and update you when papa bear arrives. Sarah out.”
Marcella was already in said closet, and Sarah quickly joined her. They slid the door shut.
“So, what did you bring?”
Marcella pulled out a large, pale white leg. It was some sort of plastic and had a slight bend at the knee.
“Mannequin leg. Nice.”
And so the two possibly insane girls settled down to wait.