for "mini_nanowrimo" hence no friends lock 10
i love this! it is so overwhelmingly geeky that it struck a cord in me. i like this girl a lot. :)
[hey! the word counter is back! yay!]
A/N: if you want to know what the statue that she's melting over look like, it's this bad boy
He's falling or jumping, trapped in time, precariously balanced on a black stand. She is holding him, again, because she finds the weight of him to be comforting to her. She likes the feeling of his outstretched cape against her. She walks around her tiny apartment and carries him with her. She sets him down, somewhere safe so he can't fall and crack, and then she talks to him as she goes about her household chores. He's a good listener, he never speaks. She assumes that is how he got to be such a good detective. He lets others talk and fill in the gaps for him.
She opens the cupboard to get a lint free cloth (she's very careful about what she will use to clean him. She doesn't want to chip the paint off of his cold cast porcelain) but there isn't any left. Wearily, she pulls on her coat. She picks him up and sets him back between his family and enemies on the mantle place. He is safe there. She walks down a flight of stairs and to the bank. She is daydreaming about what she would do if someone was robbing the bank. She wonders if she is strong, like he is, enough to catch and stop a robber.
But the bank is closed, tightly secured and well lit. She used her bank card to open the security locked door and walks up to the empty ATM. She has never forgotten her pin number, she smiles every time she punches it in. It's his number. Out of 4,000 identical moulds of him, she has number 3282. It is another reminder of justice, every time she makes a deposit or withdraw.
She stops in a 24 hour drug store, close to home, to buy her dusting cloths. She holds the door open for a man and woman. She takes in their every detail, should there be a crime and the police need a competent witness on hand. The woman is thin and frail looking. She is wearing too much dark makeup to hid the murky pallor of her skin. She walks behind the man, clinging to his leather jacket. Watching them go down the isles, she knows the woman is a junkie. The man, picking up three packages of cotton balls, is her dealer or her boyfriend. Probably both.
In line, she lets an old man in a grey cap, buying Kleenex and cough syrup, go ahead of her. He looks tired but smiles genuinely at her. She dips her head down, shy in response.
Heading home, she wonders what it would be like to have super powers. She marvels, again, at one mortal man being brave enough to don a vigilante mask amongst men and women with incredible power. She decides she doesn't need super powers. If he can be brave enough than so can she. She lives her life by a code of justice.
[hey! the word counter is back! yay!]
A/N: if you want to know what the statue that she's melting over look like, it's this bad boy
He's falling or jumping, trapped in time, precariously balanced on a black stand. She is holding him, again, because she finds the weight of him to be comforting to her. She likes the feeling of his outstretched cape against her. She walks around her tiny apartment and carries him with her. She sets him down, somewhere safe so he can't fall and crack, and then she talks to him as she goes about her household chores. He's a good listener, he never speaks. She assumes that is how he got to be such a good detective. He lets others talk and fill in the gaps for him.
She opens the cupboard to get a lint free cloth (she's very careful about what she will use to clean him. She doesn't want to chip the paint off of his cold cast porcelain) but there isn't any left. Wearily, she pulls on her coat. She picks him up and sets him back between his family and enemies on the mantle place. He is safe there. She walks down a flight of stairs and to the bank. She is daydreaming about what she would do if someone was robbing the bank. She wonders if she is strong, like he is, enough to catch and stop a robber.
But the bank is closed, tightly secured and well lit. She used her bank card to open the security locked door and walks up to the empty ATM. She has never forgotten her pin number, she smiles every time she punches it in. It's his number. Out of 4,000 identical moulds of him, she has number 3282. It is another reminder of justice, every time she makes a deposit or withdraw.
She stops in a 24 hour drug store, close to home, to buy her dusting cloths. She holds the door open for a man and woman. She takes in their every detail, should there be a crime and the police need a competent witness on hand. The woman is thin and frail looking. She is wearing too much dark makeup to hid the murky pallor of her skin. She walks behind the man, clinging to his leather jacket. Watching them go down the isles, she knows the woman is a junkie. The man, picking up three packages of cotton balls, is her dealer or her boyfriend. Probably both.
In line, she lets an old man in a grey cap, buying Kleenex and cough syrup, go ahead of her. He looks tired but smiles genuinely at her. She dips her head down, shy in response.
Heading home, she wonders what it would be like to have super powers. She marvels, again, at one mortal man being brave enough to don a vigilante mask amongst men and women with incredible power. She decides she doesn't need super powers. If he can be brave enough than so can she. She lives her life by a code of justice.