#poupeedacier

[oncecaptain-blog]

❝ Makin’ mistakes ain’t a crime, you know. ❞

@poupeedacier​ inspired by perfect chemistry

                 he presses a thin smile. a year ago, it would’ve been brighter. but his time off the grid has taken a visible toll. amusement has been stripped to the faint ghost. “no. but sometimes the consequences of those mistakes are worse.”

[bigspot]

               for the record, jetlag sucked.  all that money put into a god damn passport, all that time he took off work in the hopes of impressing some girl on a so-called ‘ fun trip ‘ across europe — all for nothing.  he could have just gone home — better yet, he  s h o u l d  have just gone home — but beth promised she’d be back once things were straightened out back in georgia.  a couple weeks on his own, he could handle that.  a couple weeks and he’d be back winning his girl’s heart again, just like he planned.

              but tonight, zach was irritable and tired.  with no place to go, he sat smack dab in a country who wanted nothing to do with his english-speaking ass.  he didn’t speak french, he didn’t know the time, and all he wanted was a damn drink just to take the edge off his nerves.    ❛  p l e a s e  dude, I don’t know what the hell you’re tryin’ to say.  whiskey — on — the — rocks.  whiskey, ya know,  on ice.   j u s t  whiskey.  not in —- fuck. ❜    he was getting nowhere fast, and with every repeated word, zach’s patience dwindled more and more.  eventually he accepted his loss, waving the bartender on before dropping his face into his own two hands.

              tired, gray eyes were rubbed red by the time he glanced in the direction of the stranger beside him.  the judgement was palpable.    ❛ I know, I know.  stupid american, huh? ❜    stupid  f u c k i n g  american.

                    / written for @poupeedacier

[thebrokenmarionette-archive]

Little Ballerina

There had once been a time that the halls of this theatre had swelled with the sound of easy conversation and the good-natured laughter of the upper class. Men and women dressed in formal evening attire would arrive in pairs or small groups, friends often linking arms with their companions and couples sharing an affectionate but publically acceptable peck on the cheek between a pause of words. Her own father had taken her to these ballets even as a child. She remembered the enveloping warmth of her small hand held in the palm of his and the endearing comments made to him about his darling dear child. Pretty as a button, they'd said with pleasant smiles, and so well-behaved for her age. Rithisak was never brought to the ballets, he would complain and fuss before they'd even reached their seats, but she had always been the sweet, compliant child.

Their hushed steps were all that broke the silence of the theater now.

Veata signalled with a silent nod to her two companions, a man and a woman brought into the fold of their group by her older brother only weeks after the emergence of the Walkers, for the doors into the audience seating to be carefully pushed open. When no undead came stumbling out Alice ducked in first, sweeping her flashlight over the rows of abandoned seats as she led the way down the aisles. There was evidence that this place had once been used as a shelter: blankets, abandoned personal possessions, litter, signs. No bodies to speak of though dead or otherwise. She tossed an extra clip to Jack and pulled Alice back with a jerk of the head. "I'll see if anything can be found backstage. The two of you sweep through the seats for anything that we can bring back. Keep close enough to each other though that if anything happens you can help one another."

Quick nods from each before she split off from the pair in favor of pulling herself onto the stage and ducking into the east wing exit. Only once or twice had she ever been brought backstage before in all the years that she'd frequented the theater, but she remembered well enough to know which path led back into the rooms of the performers. Much had gone unexplored behind the scenes, but it was as good a place as any to start. If the area proved larger than expected she'd call Alice and Jack back to her and they'd measure its perimeter as a group. Better to have someone at her back and not need it than to risk wandering alone. She was quick, but Walkers typically had the advantage of numbers in their favor.

Veata glanced over her back, assured herself that she had an exit path, and knocked against the wall of the hall leading to the private rooms. She waited with a bated breath for Walkers to come stumbling out, knew she was quick enough to escape if there were too many, and when none came she proceeded down to the first door. Still cautious, she crept the door open only enough that it could still be slammed shut if any Walker came rushing out before stepping in with her firearm drawn and ready. The last thing that she had expected was for how well-lived in the room still looked, and the young woman leveled on the other end of her weapon when a creak on the floor caught the Englishwoman's attention.

"...the Black Swan..."