809 - The ficlet that ate my brain.
A/N: So there I was. Working on Survivor's Guilt. Minding my own dorky business. I'm looking at prompts for the next chapter's ficlet. I wanted to use
psycocatgirl 's prompt, but the plotting process takes me to perverted places. and the next chapter of Survivor's Guilt already has some all-out stitchpunk sex. >.>
So I start looking at the other prompts. There aren't many. Two maybe. One and a half? insanepurin wrote "sunglasses". I'm all, Sunglasses? What the heck am I going to do with sunglasses? I guess they could wear them... but they're so tiny. I suppose I could write a human!stitchpunks fic, but I don't like writing AU's that much.
And then I saw this picture by sakikotetsu and got to talking about human!5 and... well...
So, yeah. Reincarnation is a convinient fic tool, I know. I just can't resist. All that talk of souls in the movie paired with my own spiritual beliefs and BAM! uncessary fic is born. I don't buy that all the humans got killed off. It doesn't make sense to me. No one holed up in fallout shelters?
Well, for fic purposes, some people did. Several generations later they all venture back out into the world - Several more generations later we have ourselves some reincarnated stitchpunks.
I'd meant to make this a ficlet... but then ideas got away from me... and then 7 started sounding kinda sexy and some drama started goin' down and now I have the whole epic fic plotted out...
I'm still working on Survivor's Guilt, though and I think I'll see how well this is recieved and if there's any demand for more before I get ahead of myself and start writing the rest.
Anyway, the characters are a little different. They're human now, and because of that they're obviously more infomed than stitchpunks. also more sexually aware. Likewise, the relationships are a little different. Buuut, hopefully they're not that different and the characters are still, essentially, their old stitchpunk selves. Also worth mentioning: When the apocolypse happens, we will be survived by Little Debbies, Ramen Noodles, and Beanie Weenies. Experation dates be damned. That shit lasts forever.
So, um, yeah.
Have some prompt!fail.
809
“Number 809!”
9 knew what this was about. He looked down at dirty and malformed carrots in the bucket he was filling and wondered if something so foul-tasting really worth fighting over?
“Number 809!”
9 dropped the bucket and moved toward the sound of his name.
#
They’d had real names once, but that was before 9’s time. Dehumanizing, some called it. They gave themselves unofficial names that weren’t sequential.
As far as 9 was concerned, numbers suited him better than letters ever could. It felt right. Not the eight-oh part, but the 9.
And 9 wasn’t alone. There were others who preferred only a number. They were up to number 826 now. Eighthundred and twentysix people born since they emerged from the fallout shelter. Eight hundred and twentysix natural born surface dwellers. Numbers gave you hope. Numbers had come before 809, numbers would come after 809.
You could never run out of numbers, and that was… reassuring.
“I’m out of snack cakes.”
“What?” No snack cakes? “No!”
“Sorry.” 7 looked down at the plastic, vegetable filled bucket and wrinkled her nose. “They don’t look very good anyway.”
“That’s not true!” 9 gave the bucket a gentle shake, shifting the contents. “There are… oh, see? There are peppers. You like spicy things.”
7 seemed to reconsider. She folded her arms over her chest. They were tan and bruised and covered with more lithe muscle than 9 remembered from last month. Evidently, her adventures in the Emptiness had been eventful. “I know where I can find food. I’m leaving out again in a couple of days. I’ll make a quick run to the city and be back with snack cakes just for you.”
9 grinned. 7 always kept her word. He was already offering her the bucket when she stopped him. “I’ll want more than first pick from some mostly-dead produce.”
9’s grin fell. “They’re only half-dead…”
“Be that as it may, they’re more trouble than they’re worth right now. I want something better.” 7 smiled; thin lips quirked to the left, a single brow raised. She had something in mind already. “You know 722, right? You two are close?”
As close as two people with a forty-something year age gap between them could be. “I guess.”
“Good. Take me to him.” 7 raised her hands, reaching around to pull something from her back. “I want you to commission something for me.”
#
“5?”
“Where’s 722?”
“I don’t know. Out, I guess. 5 can handle this… if I help him. 5!”
7 shook her head, kicked a tire with the toe of a hard-soled boot. “We’ll see.”
“5, are you-”
“Here.” The voice came from behind a wall of sheet metal. “I… uh… just give me a second here!” Sparks flew and the
smell of burning hair filled the workshop moments before 5 screamed.
7 did not look thrilled.
“He can do it,” 9 insisted before remembering a more obvious question that probably needed to be asked. “Are you all right?” he called out to 5.
“Probably!”
If the world was a mess, then 722’s workshop was complete bedlam. So much had been collected and stowed away here; radios, television sets, car engines, clocks, assorted electronic grids with assorted electronic wires. It was more storage shed than workshop, the nest of one crazy, gizmo-loving bird.
5 had to climb over two refrigerators and a work bench to get to them. “Sorry, it’s only ever getting more crowded in here. I keep telling 2 we need to throw some of this out, but he won’t hear of it.” 5 ran a hand through his hair; unkempt and brown and slightly singed. 9 noticed that he was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses but didn’t get a chance to ask why before 5 noticed just who 9 had arrived with. “807?”
7 stiffened. She nodded her head in grudging acknowledgement. “805.”
5 started to take a step toward her then stopped. He opened his mouth to say something then closed it. “You look good,” he settled on at last.
And she did. A nomadic life suited 7. It suited her blonde hair that had grown long and pale and sun bleached. It suited her complexion, now glowing with a light brown tan. It suited her body - oh, boy did it ever suit her body. Athletic muscle accentuated the feminine curves in an otherwise boyish figure. More than once, 9 had caught himself sneaking an appreciative look down from the hem of her shorts to the tops of her boots.
“Really good,” 5 amended.
7’s stony expression softened. She offered 5 a smile, which was the least she could do considering they had all grown up together. “So do you.”
That was a lie. 9 was sure 7 was only being polite. 5 never looked ‘really good’. At best he only looked really average; average height, average features, a little overweight. 9 didn’t think he had changed much since 7 had last seen him - but maybe that was it. 5 had an honest face and an inherent innocence that never seemed to wane.
“Why are you wearing sunglasses?”
7 and 5 both looked to 9. 5’s hand went to the nose piece between the plastic lenses and pushed them up self consciously. “Welding. Kind of. I was kind of welding and these glasses are pretty dark, so I was wearing them… because I was welding.”
5 was, in all likelihood, the worst liar in the known universe.
“Oh,” said 9. “Well, why don’t you take them off now?”
“Huh?”
“You’re not welding anymore. Take them off. There’s not much light in here. Can you even see?” 9 reached for the glasses himself and 5 leaned away. But 5 couldn’t find another excuse. 9’s logic was infallible. When 9 reached for the glasses a second time, he remained still. “What happened?”
5’s right eye was circled in a dark red that would soon turn black or blue or a violet combination of both. It looked like it hurt, which was why touching it was probably a bad idea. 9 touched it anyway.
“Ow! Ah!” 5 shrank back. “Wha-9 why would you… Don’t do that.”
“Sorry. It looks like it hurts.”
“It does!”
“It looks like it hurts, so you poke it?” 7 stepped between the two and raised her own hand to 5’s face. Evidently, her touch was considerably gentler than 9’s. “That’s going to make a pretty nasty black eye in a few hours. What did you do?”
5 pointed to the workbench where a shotgun had been laid. “They made me take one.”
“They made everyone take one.” 9 unslung his own gun from his back.
“In case those fallout punks raid this place for food again, right?” 7 removed her rifle as well. “I don’t plan on using it against anyone… but I do think guns are kind of neat.”
“Well, 2 hates them.” 5 glanced back to the shotgun with an expression that said he agreed with that sentiment. “I tried shooting it.”
“And it gave you a black eye?” 9 hadn't been aware guns could do that.
“They didn’t tell me what would happen when I shot it. I wasn’t prepared.” 5 looked away; to the floor and the wall, anywhere but at 9 or 7. “It recoiled.”
7 smirked. “Into your eye?”
“Well, into my face. My eye just happened to, you know… be in that general area.”
“I’m not sure how you managed that.” At this point, 7’s smile was so wide, she might as well have been laughing. “How did you hold the gun?”
“The wrong way.” 5 covered his eye with his hand before continuing; either to keep 7 from laughing or 9 from poking it again… probably both. “What are you two even doing here? I’m glad to see 7 and all, but if she just got here…”
A reunion with 5 was pretty low on her list of priorities. Everyone was thinking it. No one said it.
“I came here to see 722,” 7 said instead.
“Oh, he’s out.” 5 motioned over his shoulder, in the general direction of “out”. “He’s still mad about this whole mandatory bearing of arms thing… Lately, he’s been busy with expressing his concerns to, well, pretty much anyone who will listen, really. Why did you need to see him? Is it something I can help you with?”
“9 seems to think so.” 7 passed 5 her gun a tad… forcefully. 5 held it at a distance and with one hand, like it was something oozing and puss-filled or a live hand grenade he wanted to just throw and take cover from. “I want you to modify it for me.”
“I’ll help,” 9 added as 5’s worried gaze strayed to him.
“I want a bayonet.” 7 tapped a finger against the rifle’s barrel. 5 jumped. “I like the idea of a gun, but stabbing things… stabbing things is important to me.”
5 shook his head. “I don’t think- This seems like a bad idea. 2 would never agree with this. All these guns… It’s wrong.”
“That’s not what you really think. Why can’t you ever form your own opinion about something?” 7 took her gun back. “The fallout punks attacked once already. Remember what happened? Remember 806? Do you want that to happen again or do you want to be ready?”
9’s body tensed. He saw 5 do the same. The subject of 6 was still a tender one.
“I don’t want to shoot anyone…” 5 managed at long last. It was a little lame. 5 didn’t seem particularly proud of this argument.
“And neither do I. But I do want to be able to defend myself…” 7 indicated 9 with a wave of her hand. “…and my friends.”
“2’s going to kill me…” 5 reached for the gun himself this time. 7 handed it over. “What am I getting for this?”
9 stifled a laugh. 7 was comically baffled, nearly sputtering her next few words. “What do you get? 5, we’re…” The next word didn’t come easy for 7.
“Friends,” 5 finished for her. “And that’s why I’m going to help turn your gun into a… more proficient killing machine. What are friends for, right?” 5 gave an uncertain sort of laugh that prompted 7 to roll her eyes.
“Fine… 9’s getting snack cakes.”
5 looked to 9 who shrugged his shoulders and feigned innocence. “What? They’re good… I get tired of the stuff we store around here.”
“I want something better than snack cakes.”
7 clearly hadn’t been prepared to haggle with 5. “I have some witch hazel. It could help that black eye of yours…”
5 already had more medical supplies that anyone 9 knew. He was something of an unofficial and inexpensive doctor in the eyes of the community. “I want something better than snack cakes,” he repeated, predictably unimpressed with her offer.
7 narrowed her eyes. She chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. Inspiration struck. “My gun. I’ll trade you my gun.”
5 gave the rifle in his hands a bemused smile. “That seems kind of counterproductive, doesn’t it?”
“You get the rifle. I get the shotgun,” continued 7. “I think you’d like my gun better, I really do. Here. Let me show you.”
7 moved behind 5, pressed up to his back in ways that made 9 squirm with the urge to separate them. “You put this
part against your shoulder. That’s right.” 7 moved her arms around 5, positioning his hands on the rifle. She rested her chin on his shoulder, moving even closer so she could reach. “Just like that. Perfect. You look through the scope. It’s nice, right? You don’t have to get close to the enemy, and the recoil on it isn’t nearly as bad as the shotgun’s must be.”
5 looked through the scope with his good eye, shutting the bruised one as he scanned the workshop from behind the lens. “So you want a bayonet on a shotgun?” 5 asked at last, words paired with a sigh.
“That’s the idea.” 7 pulled away. 9 released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“All right,” 5 conceded, lowering the weapon and meeting 7’s grin in defeat. “But I’ll need 9’s help.”
“Not a problem,” 7 answered before 9 could so much as utter a syllable.
“And I’ll want to get in some practice before 2 comes back.”
“Also, not a problem.” 7 took the gun from 5 and grabbed him by the wrist. “9, you go ahead and get started. 5 and I will be back.”
9 watched 7 lead 5 out the back door. He tried his best to put his suspicions aside and just get to work. Already, he’d found the post off a stop sign that would probably made a decent weapon if shaped and sharpened properly.
But it was no use.
Halfway through gathering materials, 9 found himself with his nose pressed against a window. “Oh, you’re got to be kidding me.”
The grass outside was tall and dry and mostly dead. 9 couldn’t see much of his friends. What he could see were the soft drink cans set up on the broken down Buick. He could see where the bullets had missed the cans and hit the windshield. He could see where 5 was shooting from; lying in the grass quite some distance away. He could see how 7 was straddling him, leaning in close again to correct his aim.
9 frowned and backed away from the window, returning to the work at hand. As wonderful as the idea of snack cakes had been fifteen minutes ago, he was starting to think he’d gotten a bum deal.
A/N: More? Y/N? More post-apocolyptic stuffs or should I euthonize this plot bunny now?
Also, I feel the need to add some crack numerical observations that may or may not be relevant.
Paraphrasing a couple of nice things my numerology book had to say about the number 5:
"... mercurial and sensual.... quick to satisfy sexual desires..."
and further down the page...
"The most flexible of all numbers."
Good to know. I feel a little dirty now, but that's good to know.