Rocks Fall, Everybody Dies
Apr. 15th, 2008 11:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kolRocks Fall, Everybody Dies
Fandom: Kingdom!AU
Prompts: 31_days: Dying by installments & fanfic100: years
Been in Mexico a week, Mara tapped one hand’s broken nails against the worn counter, and no one’s died yet. We’re pushing it. Gotta move on.
But entropy proved a stronger call than caution, seconds worming the blade deeper into the counter. Eyes never left the heavy set bartender; his hands worked the taps with an easy leisure that stung of yet another loss, yet another failure.
Her lips quirked, hand lifting from the blade long enough to gesture at the keep to move faster. Her Spanish, even after all this time, wasn’t good enough for conversation, but impatience crossed all languages, and the keep spoke dangerous lady in the corner fluently.
The tap flowed thickly into the frosted glass; Mara’s wary eyes noted the white-gray foam, but no retort came to her lips when the keep forced the glass down to her, baptizing the counter. Once, she would have haughtily sent it back, turning her nose to the dirty brew.
Now her hands shook as they brought what could be her last meal to her lips.
Funny how nine years on the run could change a person.
Besides, she’d known the risk and there was no point complaining about it now. You just didn’t find good microbreweries in backwater Mexican towns. Not that logic stopped her from trying.
Left hand returned to the knife, the familiar steel seeking a reassuring touch. The other dug into her satchel, retrieving the too-light packet of smokes she’d pulled from the trash two towns back. Stray tobacco flakes spilled onto the counter as she tilted the plastic down, catching the final cigarette with a surprising deftness.
The little shot of death was lit and placed against her lip with battle-tested efficiency; no telling when HE would appear. She was going to milk this last shot of normal.
She could be dead before the cigarette died. Why worry about cancer in a world like theirs?
The door opens, blade sings its creator’s arrival, but she drags the stick to her lips and inhales deeply, defiantly. “You’re late,” She exhales, unable to see a difference between the smoke and the gritty air. But she can feel the smoke curl around her. “And you missed happy hour.”
He says nothing, but she knows the routine by now. Sidelong glances and throwing out her smokes— he’s not the kind for spoken disapproval, because that would mean he cared. She doesn’t kid herself into believing he feels anything— none of them do, waiting for the next step towards certain death.
He just hates the smokes.
So she flips the plastic with her free hand, spilling tobacco onto the table. Her left hand is still held by the blade. It always is. “Throw them away if you want— empty now.”
Disapproval hangs between the two, thick enough to twist into a storm she itches to inflict upon the sorry lands. But after Kansas, she keeps her hands tied. He slides into the chair next to her, saying nothing. She doesn’t mind— he never speaks until she’s done.
So she speaks for him, ordering two more from the tap, hand never leaving the blade.
“We moving on?”
For once, the knife didn’t have an answer, but the glass did. They were dying anyway- might as well be in a town with better beer.
Fandom: Kingdom!AU
Prompts: 31_days: Dying by installments & fanfic100: years
Been in Mexico a week, Mara tapped one hand’s broken nails against the worn counter, and no one’s died yet. We’re pushing it. Gotta move on.
But entropy proved a stronger call than caution, seconds worming the blade deeper into the counter. Eyes never left the heavy set bartender; his hands worked the taps with an easy leisure that stung of yet another loss, yet another failure.
Her lips quirked, hand lifting from the blade long enough to gesture at the keep to move faster. Her Spanish, even after all this time, wasn’t good enough for conversation, but impatience crossed all languages, and the keep spoke dangerous lady in the corner fluently.
The tap flowed thickly into the frosted glass; Mara’s wary eyes noted the white-gray foam, but no retort came to her lips when the keep forced the glass down to her, baptizing the counter. Once, she would have haughtily sent it back, turning her nose to the dirty brew.
Now her hands shook as they brought what could be her last meal to her lips.
Funny how nine years on the run could change a person.
Besides, she’d known the risk and there was no point complaining about it now. You just didn’t find good microbreweries in backwater Mexican towns. Not that logic stopped her from trying.
Left hand returned to the knife, the familiar steel seeking a reassuring touch. The other dug into her satchel, retrieving the too-light packet of smokes she’d pulled from the trash two towns back. Stray tobacco flakes spilled onto the counter as she tilted the plastic down, catching the final cigarette with a surprising deftness.
The little shot of death was lit and placed against her lip with battle-tested efficiency; no telling when HE would appear. She was going to milk this last shot of normal.
She could be dead before the cigarette died. Why worry about cancer in a world like theirs?
The door opens, blade sings its creator’s arrival, but she drags the stick to her lips and inhales deeply, defiantly. “You’re late,” She exhales, unable to see a difference between the smoke and the gritty air. But she can feel the smoke curl around her. “And you missed happy hour.”
He says nothing, but she knows the routine by now. Sidelong glances and throwing out her smokes— he’s not the kind for spoken disapproval, because that would mean he cared. She doesn’t kid herself into believing he feels anything— none of them do, waiting for the next step towards certain death.
He just hates the smokes.
So she flips the plastic with her free hand, spilling tobacco onto the table. Her left hand is still held by the blade. It always is. “Throw them away if you want— empty now.”
Disapproval hangs between the two, thick enough to twist into a storm she itches to inflict upon the sorry lands. But after Kansas, she keeps her hands tied. He slides into the chair next to her, saying nothing. She doesn’t mind— he never speaks until she’s done.
So she speaks for him, ordering two more from the tap, hand never leaving the blade.
“We moving on?”
For once, the knife didn’t have an answer, but the glass did. They were dying anyway- might as well be in a town with better beer.
