|Author:||klundtacular (Authenticated as klundtacular)|
|Date:||August 21, 2012 at 5:29:23 PM|
|Reply to:||Build-a-Story: Round Four! by Viola Eponine|
“Arlick,” the male screams, “Get back here!” His reprisal consists of a Plakkan epithet taking the name of the female sex organ and shortening it. I narrow my covers-filled eyes. His swear words are barrowed too. He wishes he could have my arlick. I wish I had dealt with him better outside.
At the stop of the stairs I avoid a mirror used in place of a window. Yeah, because that makes the dark and dirty hallway so much better, the imitation of imitation of lucid light. My eyes track the door I need. I am almost rid of this pestilence. The male fumes and fusses dropping a term that means I bed men outside of union—how original. The only thing that matters is that the knob won’t turn in my hand. I am crushed even as I look over my shoulder. He’s almost upon me. I pull my arm back and deliver a crushing blow to the wall just right of the doorknob.
“Takmay!” the male flusters behind me. I pay no heed to more foul language, trying hard to not marvel at my strength when I must get help. I wiggle my hand through the hole to unlatch the door. I can almost reach it… almost… almost. Finally my fingers turn the lock 90 degrees and my left hand tries the door. It’s still locked. I close my eyelids and softly repeat his utterance. I’m not getting in this way because I cannot reach any other bolts or locks.
“Where’s the man?” I turn on the male, taking my arm back.
“What are you?” His orange eyes are attenuate, this time filled with wonder and fear instead of the fires of hell. He comprehends I am not a normal anything—that I could be hell. I am fear.
“Where’s the man who makes covers? I need him.” I’ve scraped up my hand used as a sledge hammer. My blood looks purple around the bare edges. My other hand cut from the shard in the basement is healed.
“What are you?” I have no patience for this so I take off running, back down the stairs. “Takmay! Why do you need him?” he calls in fast motion to catch up with me. Just before I get to the pathetic door, I am violently pushed against the wall by his body, slamming my cheek into the hard surface. “What are you running from?” he asks breathlessly.
“You had better get off me, boy.”
“I’ll take you to him, but you have to tell me what you need.”
“Papers,” comes out in a low growl.
“How do you know about him?” the male pleads.
“He helped my guardian once.” Sure, he helped me too several times but this thing doesn’t need to know. He is strong for a male Vecher but he is young, with a mutilated forehead. He gets off of me and I tell him. “You’ll take me now.”
“Do you have a jacket?” he implores. I pull mine out of the bag on my back. “Put it on. They’ll think you’re with me.” He leads me out of the alley. “Keep your head down,” the male orders, “They’ll think you’re Plakkan if you let them see those stupid eyes.” We go along to the left and another male, one that looks slightly older comes towards us. “Takmay,” my sentinel hisses.
“What are you doing, Arlick?” Did he seriously just address me as Arlick? Rage burns inside and I wonder if I can put my fist through his face like the wall.
“Nothing, Dino.” The new male falls in step with my guide after my guide calls him a less vulgar version of arlick. Males, I don’t get them.
“That’s this?” the new male nudges his head in my direction, “Your new hahtah?” The guard grabs my arm as he sees my visceral reaction to being called the male genital.
“She needs to see Candrotha.” I wince from his grip and peel his fingers off my left arm. “Why aren’t your fingers scraped up?” he directs to me. I wriggle out of his clutches and keep my head down.
“What’s your name?” the new male incises into the conversation.
“Ele—Yarasl,” as I begin the sounds of my Vecher name my face is splashed. I turn to figure out what happened as my ensign’s body with half a face slips onto the road. My mouth opens and I don’t understand what just happened. The second male rips something out of the clothing on the dead body with half a nose bleeding all over the ground. His scar from the botched surgery is completely gone, displaced by a void of nothingness. Tissue and brain matter are covering me and the second male, who scoops up my hand and drags me away with my free hand reaching out to where someone once was.
Fear is the path to the dark side.
~Raging and quivering female mass of hormones and tosser of Dark Side Cookies™ (trade marked by Etoile)
This message was edited by the author on August 21, 2012 at 5:35:49 PM
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