Mmm. Should be working. But no.
Title: Legba, Loki, Mourning Cloak
Summary: She leaves the city.
Fandom: Amaranth
Word Count: 698
Rating/Warnings: PG
Pairing: None
A/N: The she is, obviously, Amaranth, but she hasn't been named by this point, so she's just gonna rock out with adjectives for now. If you missed them, previous sketches. And, uh, ok, creepy, this post and Bedevere have the same current music. Weird.
LEGBA
She slips out of the hover at Decatur. She makes for the mosque with the other women, but veers away down a side street. The tracking program she’s had installed guides her; she’s come to regard it as a guardian angel.
The ring of light that is the destination point falls around the feet of a large man. His dress is typical to the point of parody, looking like it hasn’t been washed in a week.
“Lost?” he asks.
“I’m looking for a road,” she responds, tripping over the words though she’s practiced them a thousand times.
“Do you know the gatekeeper?”
“I know his name.”
Legba nods. He opens the door of the hover, gesturing for her to enter.
She slides up on the seat, feeling uncomfortable. The burqa is hot and starting to itch. Legba climbs in and starts the hover. Stale, prepackaged radio filters in, the same station every hover seems to be playing, every car. Somehow, she is disappointed. She doesn’t know what she had been expecting, but it was supposed to be something special, not just a ride on a busted out hovertruck out of town.
He stops the vehicle behind a tattered billboard twenty miles out from the border and they climb out.
“Is it safe?” she asks. He nods, touching a button on his wristwatch. The dirty clothes shimmer out. She wonders why she hadn’t though of an imf instead of the damn burqa. She practically rips it off; Legba takes it from her, folding it automatically.
“Were we followed?” she asks, suddenly terrified of the whole situation.
“If you were, they’re in for a real shock,” a voice says from behind her.
LOKI
He is a short blond, very slender, with well muscled arms. The stray traces of grease that mark his hands and clothing clash with his immaculate and stylish hair, but for some reason, she likes it.
“Loki, darlin’,” he says, flipping his hair out of his eyes.
“Where is she?” Legba asks, straightening his immaculate black fatigues.
“Behind those rocks,” he says, pointing, “about five hundred yards.” Legba nods and they start out.
“Why can’t you work in metric like a normal person?”
“She runs standard, I run standard.”
“Who is she?” she finally has to ask.
“Do you know what a mourning cloak is?” Loki asks her.
Some dull recollection, a real memory. “A butterfly?”
“See, I told you this one was gonna be smart,” he says over her shoulder with a wink to Legba. “Black with white tipped wings, real pretty. Ever seen one in a museum?”
“She’s too young to have seen a museum, Loki,” Legba interrupts, bored.
“Quiet, you. This here is a dramatic speech. You can’t usually see a specimen because you can’t hardly catch one. They move too quick. Have to wait till they die, or near about, to collect one.” They are nearing the rocks. Loki takes her hand and leads her around.
“And this is my Mourning Cloak.”
MOURNING CLOAK
“It’s a-”
“It’s a car,” she says, confused. “I thought there weren’t any more.”
“Sport utility vehicle, actually. And there aren’t. Not legally, anyway. Found her rusting out when I was just a little boy, nursed her back to health. Now she runs for me, and I run for her.”
“What does it- she- run on?”
“Corn oil, mostly.” He opens the door to the back. Legba glares at him, but climbs up and straps in.
“But what about the tires? Don’t they go bad, or something like that?”
“What most people don’t know is that there are still some rubber wheeled vehicles still in use.” Loki opens the door for her, offering her a hand. “And what less people know is that they keep ‘em in facilities that they don’t lock at night.” She climbs up; it’s smaller than the average hover, but much more comfortable.
Loki opens his own door and climbs in. “You’ll want to strap yourself in. It ain’t like nothin’ you’ve felt before.”
He starts the car, and, immediately, fantastically loud music starts playing.
“Dammit, Loki,” Legba sighs. He sheepishly turns it down, just a hair, then they’re off.
Summary: She leaves the city.
Fandom: Amaranth
Word Count: 698
Rating/Warnings: PG
Pairing: None
A/N: The she is, obviously, Amaranth, but she hasn't been named by this point, so she's just gonna rock out with adjectives for now. If you missed them, previous sketches. And, uh, ok, creepy, this post and Bedevere have the same current music. Weird.
LEGBA
She slips out of the hover at Decatur. She makes for the mosque with the other women, but veers away down a side street. The tracking program she’s had installed guides her; she’s come to regard it as a guardian angel.
The ring of light that is the destination point falls around the feet of a large man. His dress is typical to the point of parody, looking like it hasn’t been washed in a week.
“Lost?” he asks.
“I’m looking for a road,” she responds, tripping over the words though she’s practiced them a thousand times.
“Do you know the gatekeeper?”
“I know his name.”
Legba nods. He opens the door of the hover, gesturing for her to enter.
She slides up on the seat, feeling uncomfortable. The burqa is hot and starting to itch. Legba climbs in and starts the hover. Stale, prepackaged radio filters in, the same station every hover seems to be playing, every car. Somehow, she is disappointed. She doesn’t know what she had been expecting, but it was supposed to be something special, not just a ride on a busted out hovertruck out of town.
He stops the vehicle behind a tattered billboard twenty miles out from the border and they climb out.
“Is it safe?” she asks. He nods, touching a button on his wristwatch. The dirty clothes shimmer out. She wonders why she hadn’t though of an imf instead of the damn burqa. She practically rips it off; Legba takes it from her, folding it automatically.
“Were we followed?” she asks, suddenly terrified of the whole situation.
“If you were, they’re in for a real shock,” a voice says from behind her.
LOKI
He is a short blond, very slender, with well muscled arms. The stray traces of grease that mark his hands and clothing clash with his immaculate and stylish hair, but for some reason, she likes it.
“Loki, darlin’,” he says, flipping his hair out of his eyes.
“Where is she?” Legba asks, straightening his immaculate black fatigues.
“Behind those rocks,” he says, pointing, “about five hundred yards.” Legba nods and they start out.
“Why can’t you work in metric like a normal person?”
“She runs standard, I run standard.”
“Who is she?” she finally has to ask.
“Do you know what a mourning cloak is?” Loki asks her.
Some dull recollection, a real memory. “A butterfly?”
“See, I told you this one was gonna be smart,” he says over her shoulder with a wink to Legba. “Black with white tipped wings, real pretty. Ever seen one in a museum?”
“She’s too young to have seen a museum, Loki,” Legba interrupts, bored.
“Quiet, you. This here is a dramatic speech. You can’t usually see a specimen because you can’t hardly catch one. They move too quick. Have to wait till they die, or near about, to collect one.” They are nearing the rocks. Loki takes her hand and leads her around.
“And this is my Mourning Cloak.”
MOURNING CLOAK
“It’s a-”
“It’s a car,” she says, confused. “I thought there weren’t any more.”
“Sport utility vehicle, actually. And there aren’t. Not legally, anyway. Found her rusting out when I was just a little boy, nursed her back to health. Now she runs for me, and I run for her.”
“What does it- she- run on?”
“Corn oil, mostly.” He opens the door to the back. Legba glares at him, but climbs up and straps in.
“But what about the tires? Don’t they go bad, or something like that?”
“What most people don’t know is that there are still some rubber wheeled vehicles still in use.” Loki opens the door for her, offering her a hand. “And what less people know is that they keep ‘em in facilities that they don’t lock at night.” She climbs up; it’s smaller than the average hover, but much more comfortable.
Loki opens his own door and climbs in. “You’ll want to strap yourself in. It ain’t like nothin’ you’ve felt before.”
He starts the car, and, immediately, fantastically loud music starts playing.
“Dammit, Loki,” Legba sighs. He sheepishly turns it down, just a hair, then they’re off.