flavour of the day, grapefruit and rocky road with malt and fresh blueberries
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Smoke Signal
Rating: PG (language)
Challenge: FOTD: dapple, Rocky Road #30: left in the dark, Grapefruit #10: over the hill
Toppings/Extras: malt, fresh blueberries
Wordcount: 994
Summary: Robyn Walshe is separated from her platoon.
Notes: This is the same riot that Pia lost her mother in. Young Robyn was weird to wite. Dapple: Marked with contrasting patches or spots; dappled. Grapefruit PFAH: Robyn : watching the stray ash and the corpses of collected books. Blueberries: You may write me down in history/ With your bitter, twisted lies,/ You may trod me in the dirt/ But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
The confusion wasn’t the worst thing about the Valeway Riot. The confused people for the most part stayed indoors, apart from those who went looking for loved ones. No, the vultures were the worst, the opportunistic criminals that saw the world fall apart and decided to make the best of it, going out and looting, losing themselves in the violence to make good on long-held grudges, turning the writhing mess into an opening for personal gain.
“About fuckin’ time!” a scowling lower-levels dweller said, glaring at her through a doorway as she passed. Robyn Walshe snapped her gaze towards him, pausing momentarily, semi-automatic rifle comfortably heavy against the inside of one elbow.
She would have said something if she were with her comrades, but she’d lost them.
“They’re a bit grumpy around here, aren’t they?” chirped the voice at her elbow. Robyn made sure to count to three before turning to face him.
He was a middle-aged man: he had a youthful appearance but she could tell he was what was generally known as an older gent. He was rumpled from the events of the day and absolutely covered in plaster dust, just like she was. Streaks of grey ran down his clothes and was in his thick hair, though occasionally he would scrub violently at his head to dislodge some in a haloic cloud.
“Why are you following me?” Robyn asked a little rudely. The young woman was tired and frustrated-and anticipating being in big trouble once she got back with her platoon. The entire riot was a mess and even now there was a distant boom like young thunder, startling the sinews of her heart. Her gun was all of the power she wielded in the world but she wasn’t the only one, not at these levels where weapons were rampant.
“Um, you saved my life? And you might do it again?”
Robyn sighed loudly. It sounded logical in the most stupid way possible.
“Right,” she muttered, stamping along the walkway and ducking into the next building. Doors were boarded and furniture was smashed up into corners and along the sides of the walls. It was gangs upon gangs, people upon people. Fighting-no, scrapping. There was total discord in the world and suddenly the upper levels couldn’t just ignore it, not any more. She turned her head sharply, ponytail swinging. Her beret was tucked into the belt-loops at the back of her trousers. “What’s your name?”
If she was going to be stuck with him, she might as well find out.
The man furrowed his brow, offended.
“You don’t know?”
Great.
“Should I?”
“I’m Matt Pritchett,” he said, more than a little sulkily. “I used to host a quiz show.”
Well, that made sense. He looked just like a game show host. Blandly handsome, all neon teeth and no brains. Funnily enough, his complexion was really good-she’d always imagined that they wore inches of foundation to get that smooth finish they achieved on television.
Anyway.
“Nice,” she said. “I’m… just call me Walshe.”
“Don’t I get a first name? You did save my life!”
“Yes, so I get to make the rules. Now shut up.” Robyn halted before the corner, hearing shouting voice on the other side. A uniform was bad news if there was only one of her and plenty of them. The electric lights were out, meaning that one stream of light punctured into the hall from the door out of the skyscraper and that was it. It was murky anyway-the Smog had thickened, greedily devouring the acrid smoke that had risen in bountiful amounts from the fires and the explosions, so much smoke that it had even plumed up to the upper levels.
It was a message, the mother of all smoke signals. Anarchy.
Same old, same old. It happened every ten years or so. The cycle continued and hundreds of people died-demanding freedom, respect, welfare, help from the state. They were kicked under the carpet time and time again. It made Robyn feel guilty just thinking about it because she lived safely above Smog level and had done all of her life.
But what could she do? The system was broken. Had been for centuries.
Peering around the corner, she only saw the wispy shapes of several departing bodies, racing off into the distance and plunging around another corner. Her brows knotted in instant thought, electricity clanging around the corners of her neurones, but of course it was never fast enough-
The blast floored them, smoke chasing every sense out of the concrete surrounding them. There was a collapse, a release, a shudder from the ancient and uncared-for building as it finally lost its grip and allowed a thundering avalanche of piping and debris to fall, floorboards slamming down into a ramp and tipping a cascade of stone and plaster down it.
“Oh, Jesus fuck!”
Smoke and dust filled the air. Metal twisted from the ceiling… Robyn was surprised she was alive. They’d been saved by the floorboards landing as peculiarly as they did-they were beneath its slope and the rubble had been diverted… well, mostly.
Coughing more dust and smoke and then violently sneezing, Robyn turned around and found that Matt Pritchett was still alive-well, still groaning, anyway. With a creak from the muscles in her knees, Robyn rose unsteadily to her feet and shook her head, trying to dislodge the intense ringing that pierced into her brain.
“You OK?” she shouted much louder than she thought she had. She didn’t even want to think about the possibility of other casualties. It was hard to see through the constant downpour of dust and somewhere, despite the electricity shortage, an alarm was screeching its little metal heart out. Light whirled ghostly through the slowly settling cloud.
“Too old for this,” Matt wheezed.
“Stop complaining,” Robyn said, voice on autopilot as she hauled him to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”
Title: Smoke Signal
Rating: PG (language)
Challenge: FOTD: dapple, Rocky Road #30: left in the dark, Grapefruit #10: over the hill
Toppings/Extras: malt, fresh blueberries
Wordcount: 994
Summary: Robyn Walshe is separated from her platoon.
Notes: This is the same riot that Pia lost her mother in. Young Robyn was weird to wite. Dapple: Marked with contrasting patches or spots; dappled. Grapefruit PFAH: Robyn : watching the stray ash and the corpses of collected books. Blueberries: You may write me down in history/ With your bitter, twisted lies,/ You may trod me in the dirt/ But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
The confusion wasn’t the worst thing about the Valeway Riot. The confused people for the most part stayed indoors, apart from those who went looking for loved ones. No, the vultures were the worst, the opportunistic criminals that saw the world fall apart and decided to make the best of it, going out and looting, losing themselves in the violence to make good on long-held grudges, turning the writhing mess into an opening for personal gain.
“About fuckin’ time!” a scowling lower-levels dweller said, glaring at her through a doorway as she passed. Robyn Walshe snapped her gaze towards him, pausing momentarily, semi-automatic rifle comfortably heavy against the inside of one elbow.
She would have said something if she were with her comrades, but she’d lost them.
“They’re a bit grumpy around here, aren’t they?” chirped the voice at her elbow. Robyn made sure to count to three before turning to face him.
He was a middle-aged man: he had a youthful appearance but she could tell he was what was generally known as an older gent. He was rumpled from the events of the day and absolutely covered in plaster dust, just like she was. Streaks of grey ran down his clothes and was in his thick hair, though occasionally he would scrub violently at his head to dislodge some in a haloic cloud.
“Why are you following me?” Robyn asked a little rudely. The young woman was tired and frustrated-and anticipating being in big trouble once she got back with her platoon. The entire riot was a mess and even now there was a distant boom like young thunder, startling the sinews of her heart. Her gun was all of the power she wielded in the world but she wasn’t the only one, not at these levels where weapons were rampant.
“Um, you saved my life? And you might do it again?”
Robyn sighed loudly. It sounded logical in the most stupid way possible.
“Right,” she muttered, stamping along the walkway and ducking into the next building. Doors were boarded and furniture was smashed up into corners and along the sides of the walls. It was gangs upon gangs, people upon people. Fighting-no, scrapping. There was total discord in the world and suddenly the upper levels couldn’t just ignore it, not any more. She turned her head sharply, ponytail swinging. Her beret was tucked into the belt-loops at the back of her trousers. “What’s your name?”
If she was going to be stuck with him, she might as well find out.
The man furrowed his brow, offended.
“You don’t know?”
Great.
“Should I?”
“I’m Matt Pritchett,” he said, more than a little sulkily. “I used to host a quiz show.”
Well, that made sense. He looked just like a game show host. Blandly handsome, all neon teeth and no brains. Funnily enough, his complexion was really good-she’d always imagined that they wore inches of foundation to get that smooth finish they achieved on television.
Anyway.
“Nice,” she said. “I’m… just call me Walshe.”
“Don’t I get a first name? You did save my life!”
“Yes, so I get to make the rules. Now shut up.” Robyn halted before the corner, hearing shouting voice on the other side. A uniform was bad news if there was only one of her and plenty of them. The electric lights were out, meaning that one stream of light punctured into the hall from the door out of the skyscraper and that was it. It was murky anyway-the Smog had thickened, greedily devouring the acrid smoke that had risen in bountiful amounts from the fires and the explosions, so much smoke that it had even plumed up to the upper levels.
It was a message, the mother of all smoke signals. Anarchy.
Same old, same old. It happened every ten years or so. The cycle continued and hundreds of people died-demanding freedom, respect, welfare, help from the state. They were kicked under the carpet time and time again. It made Robyn feel guilty just thinking about it because she lived safely above Smog level and had done all of her life.
But what could she do? The system was broken. Had been for centuries.
Peering around the corner, she only saw the wispy shapes of several departing bodies, racing off into the distance and plunging around another corner. Her brows knotted in instant thought, electricity clanging around the corners of her neurones, but of course it was never fast enough-
The blast floored them, smoke chasing every sense out of the concrete surrounding them. There was a collapse, a release, a shudder from the ancient and uncared-for building as it finally lost its grip and allowed a thundering avalanche of piping and debris to fall, floorboards slamming down into a ramp and tipping a cascade of stone and plaster down it.
“Oh, Jesus fuck!”
Smoke and dust filled the air. Metal twisted from the ceiling… Robyn was surprised she was alive. They’d been saved by the floorboards landing as peculiarly as they did-they were beneath its slope and the rubble had been diverted… well, mostly.
Coughing more dust and smoke and then violently sneezing, Robyn turned around and found that Matt Pritchett was still alive-well, still groaning, anyway. With a creak from the muscles in her knees, Robyn rose unsteadily to her feet and shook her head, trying to dislodge the intense ringing that pierced into her brain.
“You OK?” she shouted much louder than she thought she had. She didn’t even want to think about the possibility of other casualties. It was hard to see through the constant downpour of dust and somewhere, despite the electricity shortage, an alarm was screeching its little metal heart out. Light whirled ghostly through the slowly settling cloud.
“Too old for this,” Matt wheezed.
“Stop complaining,” Robyn said, voice on autopilot as she hauled him to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”