A Particular Kind of Savage Beauty

Ambient, would you like a job?

I have plenty of people I would love to see shoved off roofs.

capsaicinorganoid

HUMAN SANDRA.

THIS IS A THING I WOULD DO WITHOUT PAYMENT.

BUT WHAT CAN YOU GIVE ME. FOR MY SERVICE. OF STREET PAINTING.

Well then, payment or not, I shall have a list faxed over to you immediately.

And should you require payment other than the joy of tossing said people off high rises, let me know.

#capsaicinorganoid

capsaicinorganoid

/pushes guard off the roof

AESTHETIC.

#namely burton #capsaicinorganoid

Ambient, would you like a job?

I have plenty of people I would love to see shoved off roofs.

Welcome Home.

He couldn’t really concentrate, rain on the windscreen, deepening fog in the brain, covering traces of desperation and decay, of denial, and a most disastrous defeat at the Harbor. Cloaking him. Choking him. No breath came easy now, no beat of the heart; he could swallow what was left of his pride and turn to face her, silent, and ashamed, an empty man with empty eyes, expiring on the inside and dying to change. Change gears, change his mind, change something to make all the pain go away.

It took a while for him to speak, for him to react, and at first he supposed she was going to strike him, and so clutched at the wheel til his knuckles turned white, lightning above and beyond him and so quick that nothing could catch it. But between her fingers was a scrap of paper with a peculiar address, someplace he recognized on the other side of the city. But he didn’t know what to make of what she’d said.

“You’re… sorry?” the words left his tongue like a coat of heavy metal, and he stared in suspicion, his crooked teeth showing–not a snarl, not a smirk… Just a somber expression, trying too hard to focus–on her movements, her face, the writing on the paper slip.

It was strange to him; it didn’t sound right. Burton was used to being given orders, not concessions, and now he struggled to process truth and reason and whatever she’d meant. If she’d even meant anything at all.

It wasn’t right.

Almost hoping the thunder would smother him, and he bowed his head to his breast, his voice nothing more than a washed out wraith of a whisper. Fragmented.

“Don’t you suppose-” a pause, “-that I’m the one who should apologize?”

Lollygag would have wanted him to say it… and that was the very least he could do.

For there was little to the plague born inside him that had killed his courage, and the will to fight. Just a boring, and recurring onslaught of pain, and he was so, so tired of it all. Was left powerless; the water on the car roof rattling to a rhythm he was all too familiar with, only the constant cries of a circling storm.

Caught in the middle, he reached for the parchment, noting the numbers across it, and pushed his foot down on the pedal. The old vehicle hacked and crept gently forward, braving the rain, and the cracks in the pavement, to the edge of the lot where he stopped it again and looked at her.

“And you’re sure about this?” one brow settled, the other lifted, very little to his voice. He held the paper against the steering wheel with one thumb. “This area code is for the Grün Region. You know, it’s mostly a wreck now, after, erm-” After Alpha had set the Leogator on its Zoid-hunting rampage. Richter Scale had wanted to rebuild it–to rebuild all of Blue City, but he thought better of mentioning her brother in front of her. Not now, at least. “Never mind.”

He was still doubtful, afraid, and hesitated after nudging one foot down on the pedal, steered the car toward the corner of the block. The traffic light flashed, red, gave him time to think and steady himself while his gaze wandered slowly over slopes of city streets in the distance.

“Turn on the radio, if you wish. It’ll be a while.”

Then he feared he’d said too much, and fell into a stubborn silence. Just the car engine and thunder crashing while he drove, signs that told him to slow and to stop, and not to turn other directions–there was one way to drown and to come up for air, and one steady, snaking path through flanking walls of long-aged shadow. Filled with rusted, ancient faces. Like the buildings were bending over to turn their backs on him.

For a long while, he just watched the road and the dials on the dashboard that nodded back and forth and were always predictable, pointing at numbers. But they couldn’t turn back the time. And again and again he glanced at their reflections in the wind shield and remembered how they’d scheme and laugh together, then make answers from nonverbal cues, subtle, and slow… Just the way things used to be.

He was sick of all the secrets, and of stupid, twisted mind-games. Alpha had told him to kill her at the Harbor, but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, and he wondered again if she was trying to off him now, or lead him into a trap. He could end up back in jail, broken, forgotten. Maybe he deserved it–maybe he’d never make it out alive–maybe this was all a foolish sport of make-believe, dead-end dreams and some bigger scheme he’d no idea of. Always the pawn. Always expendable. Always putting his neck on the line.

He would risk it for Lollygag. He’d give anything. Everything.

And his heart- the damned thing- was pounding faster while he tried to force away another question that had been hounding him from the start, pressing and piercing him from all angles. At the next light, he could have coughed out his lungs and managed some way around it, forming soft words instead, for it couldn’t possibly hurt anymore, not between the bladed bones of his ribs, not in his throat, where the sentences caught and he could feel his own pulse amid the beat of the rain.

“Sandra-” Whether or not she’d answer him was up to her. He told himself he wouldn’t care either way… understood, deep down, that was a lie, and cursed at every breath he took. Blunt, but gentle.

“-I need to know why you’re doing this.”

For now there was just the whine of traffic and the sinking, blackened road.

#obsidianonslaught #i am so so late forgive me this is kind of disjointed #but sandra is feeling something fierce #and had to get it out!

Age was a funny thing. You were only as old as you feel, they say. Some elderly people found life in music, some danced, some played sports. In their minds, they were young, and it reflected in their body. Those were the kinds that outlived the younger generations and set records.

Unfortunately, the reverse, also, was true.

These long months had aged Sandra, more than she would admit. Stress, stress was a major factor. Wasn’t it funny -- it was always when you felt on top of the world that some unknown higher power knocked you on your ass and showed you just how very vulnerable you really were.

Truth was, she just didn’t have the energy to be mad at Burton. Oh, when she’d originally found out, she was absolutely steaming. Her anger was nothing short of an explosion, many vases were destroyed, many nights spent just screaming. In retrospect, she’d felt bad for whomever was in the base during that period. And of course, many, many tears shed.

Retail therapy was next; she was a skilled pilot and had had a savings account for trying times, but only that provided momentary release. But, she did manage to furnish her home with plastic decor.

Pain, pain had been everywhere; however it slowly gave way to sadness. After she’d gone through the anger and denial phases, she’d secretly wonder if it was her. Perhaps she wasn’t good enough and it was somewhat of her own doing. Perhaps she deserved this, in some way.

During her dark nights, she’d even thought about giving it all to Alpha.

Luckily, she had some semblance of dignity and that did not happen. However, she was tired of fighting. Tired of feeling. Anger is an exhausting emotion, and she felt like she’d aged 50 years during those times.

A small snort escaped from her mouth along with a chortle. Oh, how she’d longed to hear those words -- longed to hear an apology straight from the horse’s mouth as it were. And now, under the circumstances, it was just funny. A part of her doubted his sincerity; hell, a part of her felt like he was simply using her to get to Lolly. She had no way of proving any of this, one way or the other. But, she knew Lolly didn’t deserve this.

Perhaps it went along with the self blame; maybe that one flicker of hope she’d held in her heart for so long, that Burton would return for her, blossomed into a full-blown flame upon seeing him. Maybe she’d do just about anything to keep him next to her. Maybe after so long, her heart had leaped after seeing something familiar and beloved.

Oh, she had many reasons for doing this. All of them, to her forefront emotion, absolutely stupid -- she shouldn’t feel this way for anyone. This is what caused all the problems in the first place -- but here she was, sitting shotgun and not moving a muscle, a battle waging behind hidden eyes.

And she was thankful, oh so thankful, that tears were one type of soldier that Burton couldn’t see, because her eyes were absolutely full.

His voice was the only music she could bear to hear at the moment. Mentally preparing herself, she opened her mouth, her voice proud and clear as day.

“I felt generous.”

[Prozen + Sandra] Can I get you a drink?

“Cheers.” Half-murmured, he paused to glance behind him before untangling himself from his satchel and hooked the leg of the seat with a foot and pulled it out to drop gracelessly onto it. While the satchel was on the floor, he still held onto the strap, the buckle held loosely in one hand as he ran his thumb over the soldered joints. “And I am always troubled – people with responsibility usually are. I hope I didn’t keep you, Sandra-” Prozen spoke her name softly, unsure – in a public place like this, was that polite? She was a public figure, true, but…Hmm. To hell with it. “I have two things on my mind. The first, is how do you deal with all of this…this thisness?” A wave of his hand towards the general world; the glaring billboards and lit advertisements, the cars, the people. Quieter. “Are they always this rude? And that wasn’t my second thought; as I have found that people in general tend to be quite rude. My second thought is; what are you drinking as it smells divine, and can I get you another when I order my own?”

#uh so SANDRA WANTED TO BRING THIS BACK #after #so long #imperialcrimson

Oh, how Sandra loved to people-watch. People had certain habits they liked to indulge in when they felt a certain type of way, and truth be told, a lot of the time these habits were standardized across the board. Just the slightest touch of the face, a turn towards or away during a certain conversational topic --- if one paid just enough attention, they’d find out that people were an open book -- you just needed to know how to read it.

Which is probably why Prozen was so interesting to Sandra.

He was, in short, a social disaster, and his book was filled with interesting stories she had yet to learn. Why was he the way he was? He also held a position of power, and to the lay person he exuded power and grace.

Well, he did until he nearly tripped over the chair trying to get to the table she was currently sitting at.

Ah, it was all amusing.

Sandra probably figured she should answer his questions systematically, that was always the easiest route. “This... thisness, as you so affectionately called it, is how the way the world works, Gunther. You spend too much time behind walls to understand just how easy it is to read people. Sit outside, stop and smell the roses for once, hmm?”

She picked up the tea she had ordered and gently sipped it. “Ah, dragonfruit. It’s my favorite. Did you know it only blooms once a year?” She lowered her voice, leaning towards his face with only the slightest of grins. “And they’re only as rude as you make them, Minister.” She winked, leaning back in her chair and crossing her leg over the other, casually watching Prozen.

Perhaps it was a bad habit, but she especially loved watching people out of their element. And making them so.

Only then would one be able to see the true color of their soul.

Welcome Home.

He dangled the keys from between his fingers, long, pale pieces that stretched like the night and scent of the storm on the outside, patient and prevailing in its reign, and so deep and dark that the progress was lost in the base of the clouds and the clashing of lightning and thunder. Silver streaks slitting open the sky. The flash of pure power and the signal of the squall falling just to the bridge of his nose and his brow, where the color became ashen and cool, obsolete. He watched Sandra through the time of their blunted abeyance, and the drumming of the wind on the window, their neglected reflections casting semblances of their shadows into the lesser inscription of the light and the glass…

When she sighed, he stood still. The keys in his hands were serrated and small, and sounded too close to the soft cracking of some wing-ed creature’s scales.

Burton waited, smiled slowly at the sight of her. Keeping so composed and shaped by her stable expressions, chin high, musing on moments he could only guess at and try to read off the pull of her lips. They were red, concealing, and pressed together in a menacingly mesmeric manner.

Then she shrugged and he started to wonder, gentle glances going gracefully and unnoticed toward the window pane, if his reflection—the faded, more fractured form—was actually better… He decided it would never matter, and his tone turned to something tart and insultingly sullen.

"I’m a quick learner," he said coldly, and opened the door. "You already knew that.”

And as if to say something more, he moved in front of her and held it wide, then set up the shield of the cloaking umbrella. When they were outside, the rain hammered down on the street and their shoulders where the span of it couldn’t completely cover. He held the handle in between them to resurrect a barrier, and balanced the weight of it wordlessly while they walked. Down past the buildings where the asphalt blended with concrete, and became stronger, thicker- severed and dented in insignificant places where the surface had been chipped away. The car was somewhere in the middle of the lot, surrounded on all sides by high walls and metal-cast signs, the smell of the wind that rushed and prevailed.

He made sure Sandra was safe in the passenger seat first, and then found his way over to the left with the keys resting still in his palms, saw himself in the side-view mirror and the salty sea wreck of his face and his hair. The car started with a cough, warmed up quickly, supplied a shelter against the showers and the terrible abyss of the blackness and the noise that choked at life and sight and sought to wash all but turmoil away. And a place where they could sit, once again, side-by-side, like those older days back in the office until the sun would go down and sing and set the city to sleep…

The storm was inside him too, and thrashed and wailed so bitterly that it had wrenched his perception to pieces, snapped his jaw, drowned his voice, smashed him into his blood and the soil and stranded him there on his own. All the time, he remembered the course of that night and how now he’d chosen silence over grief and gravity, so the remnants of his defeats and deficiencies would ruin him.

He could recall a sequence of numbers and names, stampeding, the chains of the warehouses. Exchanging of bullets, and snapping something into the radio that had failed, and killing himself on fake laughter, disdain. Fire. Lolly had fallen. And then there was the face of the Falcon.

Sandra-

He tore himself from it, touched the wheel with both hands and then shifted gears. “I need instructions.” He wouldn’t look at her now, bit down on the inside of his mouth and almost hoped that it would hurt. She could drag him down with her or around in circles—he really couldn’t care at that point.

"… and anything else you’d like to say before we start off.”

That was more of a warning, set in a buried, even pitch, and aimed dead-ahead at the dashboard. He felt a rush of blood and some long-shouldered burden punch him sharply in the throat and in his ribs, over his forehead, under his collar so close to where his obsidian pendant hung. That too, from the inside, and it stung and burned and battered him until he was fit for collapse and decay, so he swayed from it, and set his stony eyes on the roads that went off in other directions.

It wasn’t hatred. It was something vastly more painful.

… He loved to listen to the storms.

#obsidianonslaught #//present number 2 :D

“I know a lot of things about you, Burton,” using his name, the title was heavy on her tongue. Well, I had known a lot of things about you. One of the worst days was -- no. Reminiscing would get her nowhere, now. She had a job to do, she would not let old sentimental feelings get in her way. That was a grave mistake the first time, and she vowed to not make the same mistake twice.

Although, here she was, following him out into the rain, to the car. Following this man once more, leading herself knowingly into the valley of the shadow of death again. Some would call her naiive; touch the fire and get burned once, learn your lesson, Sandra, they’d say. And even though she promised herself she wouldn’t get caught up in his web -- here she was, willingly walking into it again.

Something had changed, she’d noticed. The first time she’d laid eyes on him after their time apart, she could see that something was off. You didn’t spend months with someone and not learn how to read them. Especially those you cared about. But, she’d thrown caution into the wind and gone about her plan. Lolly had needed Burton almost as much as the reverse, and, although as disinclined to admit it as she was currently, she needed Burton. Not just any Burton, but Burton on his A game.

Argh, the whole thing made her head spin, truly.

Questions. He had asked her questions, and she just sat like a cadaver in his front seat, going off into her own little fantasy world.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, a hint of distance still lingering in her words. “if you’re that insistent on driving me, I suppose I’ll have to divulge.” She’d brought with her a paper, an address hastily scribbled on the parchment. Digging it out of her pockets, she handed it to him, reaching for her sunglasses as well.

“Here.”

It was raining, but she hoped there’d be an eye to this storm. Until then, her true intentions would remain hidden behind stylish sunglasses.

vigilantia-aeterna

Visit Original Link

play-listings

Visit Original Link

Dog Problems - The Format I never finish phrases, I misspell An open arm’s a prison cell When I said, “I hate what I’ve become” I lied, I hated who I was

ferineelegance

"Horror Stories"

ferineelegance

Estelle very slowly, very shakily, lowered herself into a seat on the couch.

Some of the initial shock was wearing off…gradually. Her rational mind knew there was no immediate threat but the more mechanical, base instincts running beneath everything else were a bit harder to convince.

She stayed silent for the long moments that followed, but presently her mind was in the middle of its own little civil war, with all different parts of her being thrashing about, trying to sort out which had the correct perception of what had just happened and was happening.

In the end, though, there was only ever two possible answers, either all of this was real, or it was not, and despite what everything Estelle knew of the world was telling her, she resigned to the fact that she needed to humor the seemingly impossible concept - that it was real, that she had seen the horns and the wings, that her present illness was more than an infection surging through a stressed immune system - and hear more of what Sandra had to say before she could answer her own questions.

"…What’s going to happen to me, then…?"

her stomach churned at her own, slightly quavering words, not so much out of physical illness - which was still very much present - but a sort of irritated mental balking. Everything she was being told, all she was seeing, went against everything she had ever been taught and had to abide by to stave off…various sorts of severe reprimand. So, perhaps naturally, what had become her rational mind was not taking kindly to her daring to entertain the idea that she really had just seen the woman in front of her turn into a mythical creature…or that the same woman really did still have horns protruding out of her skull.

…Yet in a way at this point, that “rational” side had been defeated, and again - but for very different reasons than she was used to - Estelle forced it all down far enough to ensure the fiercely clinging doubts would not show on her face. She was sick enough already, she certainly didn’t feel she could handle the added shame of allowing her employer to see just how much she was still struggling to believe her.

#wastelandaristocrat #bringing this back woo!

"Well, for one," Sandra took a deep breath and moved closer to Estelle, "you're going to need to get it through your head that things will be quite different from now on. You'll also need to learn how to control your new form," the blonde tilted her head as she looked over the scared girl, "I don't intend on having a were feline run amuck in my base, do I make myself clear?"

Tough times were ahead for Esie, that much was true. But Sandra would be lying if she said that Esie wouldn't be able to handle it. Everyone on the Savage Hammer team was hand picked by Sandra herself; no one was incompetent. The succubus demon had utmost faith in her comrades.

That didn't mean, however, that Estelle was exempt from any and all lessons in 'taming' her new inner beast. "I'll be more than happy to help you learn your transformation triggers and all that jazz, but you have to be willing to work on this in addition to whatever else you have on your plate on a day to day basis."

Sandra was sympathetic, but she ran a tight ship, and this story being leaked to the public, or to certain individuals was most definitely not an option.

[Prozen + Sandra] Can I get you a drink?

Ah. Well, well. This was a surprise - he’d not expected her to take him up on the offer. He felt his insides do an unpleasant swoop-y thing usually reserved for idiots, and that made him scowl. Scowling was unfriendly ad unguarded, so that was quickly put aside as best he could - Prozen needed to keep his head, and so help him…

Getting to Sandra would prove difficult. There were few paths that weren’t blocked by either chairs, bags or on one occasion a child asleep in a pram; the handles overloaded with expensive looking shopping bags - lots of colours, glitter, but no names Prozen had ever heard of. So this is progress.

Well there was no way of getting around without looking like an idiot, so he didn’t even try. Gentle requests, rolled eyes when people wouldn’t move, or in one case rudely shove their chair into his path, it was a dance he wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with, but there were more uniforms where he came from, less civilians. And he couldn’t use rank or inside information to get his way - on these shores Prozen was simply Prozen. A slightly eccentric man with a talking zoid.

He knew Noise was following his progress - he could almost hear the bastard snickering away from his vantage point.

Well.

He stepped over one last set of bags, drew himself up and smiled his brightest smile to Sandra, which wasn’t very bright at all because this was frustrating, and stupid, and ugh. “My apologies for keeping you, madam.”

#imperialcrimson #Prozen cracks me up; he's so precious

This was entirely too amusing.

It was if the man had never gone outside. He was so unbelievably awkward in his movements to avoid the other patrons in the coffee shop. It was a little adorable; however she'd deny that thought until her dying day. Prozen had made very clear that he was indeed out of his natural element.

So was she, in a way. She didn't leave the Savage Hammer base very often, and even when she did, she was never alone. She wouldn't admit it, but she wanted to make damn sure she didn't run into that pile of filth that was the leader of Richter Scale. So, her days were spent wandering around close to the base.

Sandra had decided to go out on a limb when she entered the shop, and Prozen's darting-around-everyone dance was more than worth it.

"No apologies needed, good sir," she chuckled lightly, covering her mouth with a hand in an attempt to hide the fact that she was bordering on full blown laughter, and gestured to the seat across from her.

"You seem... troubled. Have a seat. What's on your mind?"

sextape-movie

What’s the worst that could happen?