flavour of the day, rhubarb and cookies 'n' cream with sprinkles, butterscotch and fresh pineapple
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Graffiti
Rating: PG (language)
Challenge: FOTD: bedaub, Rhubarb #28: get out of dreamland (the Blackledge Children have to adjust to life outside of the Facility), Cookies ‘n’ Cream #12: strike
Toppings/Extras: sprinkles, butterscotch, fresh pineapple
Wordcount: 615
Summary: Another day in Lower Wolverton.
Notes: New sprinkles! Also: this is shortly after the Blackledge Project was disbanded in 2967. Bedaub: to smudge over; to besmear or soil with anything thick and dirty. Pineapple: Well, I’m a’gonna raise a fuss/ I’m a’gonna raise a holler.-“Summertime Blues”, The Who.
The door slammed open and the dark-haired young woman stepped out onto the shoddy walkway outside of her home. Lower Wolverton was a bad area, just below the Smogline and encapsulated in a layer of grime that simply never went away. Pickaxe, as the woman was known, had tried to scrub down the outside of the hovel of a flat she shared with her clones many times. It looked like she would have to once again.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, grey eyes narrowing to hard slits as she spotted the two adolescents using thick, congealed paint to plaster up a message on her wall. She knew it was thick and congealed because at her abrupt words they both leapt backwards and one of them knocked it over, sending the toad-green paint rolling slowly from the edge of the metal container.
She turned her fierce gaze towards the outside of her home and her expression darkened considerably.
“Everyone’s thinkin’ it,” one of the scraggly kids said insolently-he didn’t say anything else because within a moment Pickaxe was on him, grasping him hard by one shoulder and bringing her other arm in a sharp swipe that ended in an open-handed slap against his face, leaving a burning triangle of vivid pink as his head snapped to one side.
“Don’t you fucking dare come back here again,” she exploded, voice cracking on the last word. “Leave us alone. Go away.”
His clothes bunched to nothing in her tight fist and the boy looked shocked at having been struck. Before she could say anything the door burst open behind her and a clone known as Goodluck stepped out of their home: a dumping ground, a Blackledge slum, filled with the young adults and older adolescents that had not needed to go into care homes and orphanages. Twelve to a room. Twenty to a kitchen.
And growing every week, every day…
“Pick,” he said in a warning tone, gazing out from beneath a dripping fringe of oil-black hair. Their identical eyes met and clashed momentarily before she let go of the kid, thrusting him away from her like he disgusted her. He did.
The two graffiti artists scarpered pretty quickly, not even bothering to pick up the paint slowly dribbling a thick puddle around itself. Soon they disappeared into the curling miasma that was the Smog, curling down from above, an impenetrable carpet of pollution that cut most of the daylight away, a literal poverty-line that separated them from the towering heights of the gleaming city.
Folding her arms, clenching her pale fingers tight against the fabric of her jumpsuit, Pickaxe swung around to glare at Goodluck. His eyes had strayed to the wall.
“He deserved it,” Pickaxed snapped as Goodluck sighed.
“We’re going to get into even more trouble at this rate,” he said, turning slowly back towards the door. Roaring mobs were constantly knocking at their door-people with powers tended to make the normal populace nervous. And, as sad as it was, in a few cases it was justified. “Come on.”
“Aren’t we going to clean this off?”
“Bluesy can do it. He loves cleaning. Now come on.”
Pickaxe cast her gaze back out towards the tangled, soot-streaked walkways of Lower Wolverton, the gaping mouths puncturing into the bellies of the ‘scrapers all around them, people hurrying places with their heads low and shoulders high. A shout cut through the still air briefly and was gone.
She followed Goodluck back inside with a bad-natured frown still on her face.
On the wall outside their home in streaking green paint, still shiny in its freshness: NO MOTHERS. NO FATHERS. NO SOULS.
Title: Graffiti
Rating: PG (language)
Challenge: FOTD: bedaub, Rhubarb #28: get out of dreamland (the Blackledge Children have to adjust to life outside of the Facility), Cookies ‘n’ Cream #12: strike
Toppings/Extras: sprinkles, butterscotch, fresh pineapple
Wordcount: 615
Summary: Another day in Lower Wolverton.
Notes: New sprinkles! Also: this is shortly after the Blackledge Project was disbanded in 2967. Bedaub: to smudge over; to besmear or soil with anything thick and dirty. Pineapple: Well, I’m a’gonna raise a fuss/ I’m a’gonna raise a holler.-“Summertime Blues”, The Who.
The door slammed open and the dark-haired young woman stepped out onto the shoddy walkway outside of her home. Lower Wolverton was a bad area, just below the Smogline and encapsulated in a layer of grime that simply never went away. Pickaxe, as the woman was known, had tried to scrub down the outside of the hovel of a flat she shared with her clones many times. It looked like she would have to once again.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, grey eyes narrowing to hard slits as she spotted the two adolescents using thick, congealed paint to plaster up a message on her wall. She knew it was thick and congealed because at her abrupt words they both leapt backwards and one of them knocked it over, sending the toad-green paint rolling slowly from the edge of the metal container.
She turned her fierce gaze towards the outside of her home and her expression darkened considerably.
“Everyone’s thinkin’ it,” one of the scraggly kids said insolently-he didn’t say anything else because within a moment Pickaxe was on him, grasping him hard by one shoulder and bringing her other arm in a sharp swipe that ended in an open-handed slap against his face, leaving a burning triangle of vivid pink as his head snapped to one side.
“Don’t you fucking dare come back here again,” she exploded, voice cracking on the last word. “Leave us alone. Go away.”
His clothes bunched to nothing in her tight fist and the boy looked shocked at having been struck. Before she could say anything the door burst open behind her and a clone known as Goodluck stepped out of their home: a dumping ground, a Blackledge slum, filled with the young adults and older adolescents that had not needed to go into care homes and orphanages. Twelve to a room. Twenty to a kitchen.
And growing every week, every day…
“Pick,” he said in a warning tone, gazing out from beneath a dripping fringe of oil-black hair. Their identical eyes met and clashed momentarily before she let go of the kid, thrusting him away from her like he disgusted her. He did.
The two graffiti artists scarpered pretty quickly, not even bothering to pick up the paint slowly dribbling a thick puddle around itself. Soon they disappeared into the curling miasma that was the Smog, curling down from above, an impenetrable carpet of pollution that cut most of the daylight away, a literal poverty-line that separated them from the towering heights of the gleaming city.
Folding her arms, clenching her pale fingers tight against the fabric of her jumpsuit, Pickaxe swung around to glare at Goodluck. His eyes had strayed to the wall.
“He deserved it,” Pickaxed snapped as Goodluck sighed.
“We’re going to get into even more trouble at this rate,” he said, turning slowly back towards the door. Roaring mobs were constantly knocking at their door-people with powers tended to make the normal populace nervous. And, as sad as it was, in a few cases it was justified. “Come on.”
“Aren’t we going to clean this off?”
“Bluesy can do it. He loves cleaning. Now come on.”
Pickaxe cast her gaze back out towards the tangled, soot-streaked walkways of Lower Wolverton, the gaping mouths puncturing into the bellies of the ‘scrapers all around them, people hurrying places with their heads low and shoulders high. A shout cut through the still air briefly and was gone.
She followed Goodluck back inside with a bad-natured frown still on her face.
On the wall outside their home in streaking green paint, still shiny in its freshness: NO MOTHERS. NO FATHERS. NO SOULS.