There are hundreds of run-down, abandoned, falling-apart little bungalows around the outskirts of Metropolis. Lived in by the well-off, then reclaimed by the carnivorous.
There is the sound, from some distance down the road, of an engine.
It oscillates strangely-- now a roar, now a murmur, broken by the occasional cough. Imriel has learned more or less how to be a mechanic; he has not learned how to be a good mechanic. And his driving... well, as long as the road is straight, he stays on it.
But sometimes you just have to take an angst holiday to dear Québec visit the graves of the people who welcomed you into this fuckup of a world.
Sylvia Wycliffe has been in this world for a few months. Only recently has she found Metropolis - and relative safety for herself and her son.
It's best not to think about where she stole her winter clothes - a parka, jeans, scuffed black boots - so different than what a well-born lady should wear.
It's best not to think about where she got the pistol she keeps in her parka.
It's best not to think about who gave her the scars on her cheeks, who cut two fingers from her left hand.
She doesn't think of any of those things. She has her son. He's safe. That's all that matters.
Sylvia, a baby-bag hanging from her shoulder (a few provisions for herself as well), Michael himself strapped to her chest, staggers into one of the little bungalows.
As abandoned bungalows go, it's not too shabby. It's been left unlocked, and though the entrance hall is chilly, it seems to get warmer further in.
In fact, is it really so abandoned? Because from the same direction as the warmth comes the faint, welcoming smell of something baking. Cinnamon cookies, maybe. Something strong and sweet.
Maybe whoever lives here won't mind a visitor, though. There's the unlocked door, after all, and also a feeling like she's invited to go deeper. Like she's requested to.
Sylvia begins to relax before she notices the smell. Then she stiffens, bringing her pistol up.
She stares at her right hand, the one holding the gun. Perhaps she's become too attached to it. Why would someone baking such delicious things want to hurt her?
She stuffs the gun into her parka. Michael stirs and begins to squawk. She pats his cheek absentmindedly as she looks around.
"Hello?" she calls out, unthinkingly walking in the direction of the smell and the warmth.
But Sylvia might become aware of a slight, persistent ringing in her left ear. If she's had an opportunity to hear a TV set whine, or the ring of a wet finger around the rim of a wine glass, then she might find this reminiscent.
As she walks forwards, the smell grows -- and with the smell, so too the compulsion to follow it to its source. It seems to come from somewhere up this staircase. Won't she climb it?
Comments 33
'Shelter' at some point shaded into 'residence'.
'Residence', into... well.
There isn't exactly a word for it.
'Tomb' implies that he is physically dead.
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It oscillates strangely-- now a roar, now a murmur, broken by the occasional cough. Imriel has learned more or less how to be a mechanic; he has not learned how to be a good mechanic. And his driving... well, as long as the road is straight, he stays on it.
But sometimes you just have to take an angst holiday to dear Québec visit the graves of the people who welcomed you into this fuckup of a world.
Don't you?
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...
???
!!!
Bringing the motorbike to a halt without killing himself or Chandra is a task, but he manages it.
"Are you all right?"
Reply
It's best not to think about where she stole her winter clothes - a parka, jeans, scuffed black boots - so different than what a well-born lady should wear.
It's best not to think about where she got the pistol she keeps in her parka.
It's best not to think about who gave her the scars on her cheeks, who cut two fingers from her left hand.
She doesn't think of any of those things. She has her son. He's safe. That's all that matters.
Sylvia, a baby-bag hanging from her shoulder (a few provisions for herself as well), Michael himself strapped to her chest, staggers into one of the little bungalows.
Pistol out, of course. Got to keep safe.
Reply
In fact, is it really so abandoned? Because from the same direction as the warmth comes the faint, welcoming smell of something baking. Cinnamon cookies, maybe. Something strong and sweet.
Maybe whoever lives here won't mind a visitor, though. There's the unlocked door, after all, and also a feeling like she's invited to go deeper. Like she's requested to.
Reply
She stares at her right hand, the one holding the gun. Perhaps she's become too attached to it. Why would someone baking such delicious things want to hurt her?
She stuffs the gun into her parka. Michael stirs and begins to squawk. She pats his cheek absentmindedly as she looks around.
"Hello?" she calls out, unthinkingly walking in the direction of the smell and the warmth.
Reply
But Sylvia might become aware of a slight, persistent ringing in her left ear. If she's had an opportunity to hear a TV set whine, or the ring of a wet finger around the rim of a wine glass, then she might find this reminiscent.
As she walks forwards, the smell grows -- and with the smell, so too the compulsion to follow it to its source. It seems to come from somewhere up this staircase. Won't she climb it?
Reply
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