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FIC: The Soul Market (OUATIM, PG-13 for language)
Fandom: Once Upon A Time In Mexico
Rating: PG-13 to R for language
In the proud tradition of fic written when I really should be doing something else. My train is in five hours.
THE SOUL MARKET
Red dust on his hands.
Violet now, Sands supposed, since the sun no longer beat down on him, making the blood crackle and flake with each muscle he moved. The desert at dusk was only marginally better than during the day, and where was that Bud when he’d actually want one?
A stray thought, that one, and then he was crawling again. He had fallen three miles out of Culiacan, and now the knees and elbows of his clothes were in shreds. All he knew was that he had to get out, out before they came looking for him, with their guns and drugs and obsidian-sharp blades.
There was nothing he could afford to lose to the hungry jackals of Mexico.
“You are tired, serpent.”
At first he thought the voice was an illusion. Too much bone-rattle in it, too precise, like listening to fucking BBC – too familiar, that was it.
“Fucking Death speaks like Christopher Lee,” Sands muttered. “I knew it.”
“Your mind gives me that voice.” For a moment, the swirling red mist that was his stubborn optic nerves refusing to accept they had nothing to receive cleared into an image of a Dia de los Muertos mask, craggy and worn. “But your mind is failing.”
“Well, see here, ass-hat, it’s not like I have any fucking choice.” Sands rolled himself belly-up. A wind was rising as the night fell, and it drew the dust to him. Soon he’d look just as dark as the local yokels. “I mean, I could use a holiday, but what’s the use of going to Puerto Vallarta if you can’t see the sights?”
“There are no windows in my house.” The voice was still old-timer horror movie, and now Sands smelled old blood to match. “There are four years to the journey, but I can take you there by my road.”
Ah, here came the hook. Beware of delusions bringing favours. “What’s the fucking rush? You’re death, it’s not like I have anywhere left to run.”
Then the world shifted again, and there she was. Her skirts rustled as she approached. They also hissed, but Sands decided not to dwell on that too much.
“Serpents aren’t your domain, Mictlan-lord.”
And fuck, that California monotone, little girl’s breathlessness. Not fucking fair, even if he’d expected it. Genevieve Sands was dead and buried and avenged, and had no business showing up in his deathbed delusions.
He tried to raise his head, but it wouldn’t move, and he had to lick his lips before they would bend to his will. “Mother.”
“She’s not your mother.” No-one did irony like the British. Or maybe that was a death-god thing.
“I’m everyone’s mother,” the woman chided. She knelt at Sands’ side and cradled his head in her lap. Her skirts were writhing snakes and her breasts hung limp and empty, and he was never so grateful that he smelled earth and Mexico and not Parisian perfume.
“No-one asked you here.” This was crossing the line between irony and aggression.
Her fingers combed Sands’ hair, too much Genevieve in that touch for Sands’ comfort. Maybe it was a Mom thing. The claws helped him tell the difference.
“I wanted to see my son’s latest game.”
A clatter of bone on bone as the death-god walked closer. “Which son?”
She adjusted Sands’ sunglasses and brushed his face clean of the flaking blood. He wonder how he looked like in the fading light – black and white and red, like a ceremonial mask.
“The one who protects the poor and the unfortunate.” She sounded fond of the fucker, whoever he was. “I think the Black one considers using a white man to do his bidding amusing.”
“He’s the Night-lord’s?” Good, the death-fucker sounded rattled. Though what the hell’s cesspits was that about doing bidding?
A flute’s shivering cry, and Sands realized it was cold enough to be night. No more sun, no more pain. Maybe it was even cold enough for the cartel fuckers to miss him, provided they were even looking.
“He’s coming.” Genevieve’s voice, his mother’s smile, clawed hands lying him out on the desert floor, spreading his arms and his legs, and he had no strength to move them again.
Bone-rattle, fingers touching his lips. “He’s coming. You’ll wish you’d taken my offer, serpent.”
And it clicked, an old story from Cultural Anthropology, the same fucking class someone had seen on his resumé and decided it made him perfect for Hellhole, Mexico. The Black Night-lord, with his flute and his mirror, the obsidian mirror that showed the truth to eyes that could see. Tempter, changer, protector and Adversary. Tezcatlipoca, Coatlicue’s son, and it figured that even the old bastard Death-King from Mictlan would be scared.
And Tezcatlipoca, Sands remembered, had bells tied to his legs.
Bells like the ones tied to the leg that was prodding him in the ribs.
“They cut my eyes out,” he said. His voice sounded strange, and then he realized he was smiling.
“You’re lucky.” Did the jangling bastard ever sing when he played? He didn’t sound like he’d be much good at it. “In Mexico, they used to cut out prisoners’ hearts.”
“But you got a year of playing King of Mexico first.”
“Get up. We have a long way to walk.”
&FINIS&
Comment? (yes/no/bang!)
Rating: PG-13 to R for language
In the proud tradition of fic written when I really should be doing something else. My train is in five hours.
THE SOUL MARKET
Red dust on his hands.
Violet now, Sands supposed, since the sun no longer beat down on him, making the blood crackle and flake with each muscle he moved. The desert at dusk was only marginally better than during the day, and where was that Bud when he’d actually want one?
A stray thought, that one, and then he was crawling again. He had fallen three miles out of Culiacan, and now the knees and elbows of his clothes were in shreds. All he knew was that he had to get out, out before they came looking for him, with their guns and drugs and obsidian-sharp blades.
There was nothing he could afford to lose to the hungry jackals of Mexico.
“You are tired, serpent.”
At first he thought the voice was an illusion. Too much bone-rattle in it, too precise, like listening to fucking BBC – too familiar, that was it.
“Fucking Death speaks like Christopher Lee,” Sands muttered. “I knew it.”
“Your mind gives me that voice.” For a moment, the swirling red mist that was his stubborn optic nerves refusing to accept they had nothing to receive cleared into an image of a Dia de los Muertos mask, craggy and worn. “But your mind is failing.”
“Well, see here, ass-hat, it’s not like I have any fucking choice.” Sands rolled himself belly-up. A wind was rising as the night fell, and it drew the dust to him. Soon he’d look just as dark as the local yokels. “I mean, I could use a holiday, but what’s the use of going to Puerto Vallarta if you can’t see the sights?”
“There are no windows in my house.” The voice was still old-timer horror movie, and now Sands smelled old blood to match. “There are four years to the journey, but I can take you there by my road.”
Ah, here came the hook. Beware of delusions bringing favours. “What’s the fucking rush? You’re death, it’s not like I have anywhere left to run.”
Then the world shifted again, and there she was. Her skirts rustled as she approached. They also hissed, but Sands decided not to dwell on that too much.
“Serpents aren’t your domain, Mictlan-lord.”
And fuck, that California monotone, little girl’s breathlessness. Not fucking fair, even if he’d expected it. Genevieve Sands was dead and buried and avenged, and had no business showing up in his deathbed delusions.
He tried to raise his head, but it wouldn’t move, and he had to lick his lips before they would bend to his will. “Mother.”
“She’s not your mother.” No-one did irony like the British. Or maybe that was a death-god thing.
“I’m everyone’s mother,” the woman chided. She knelt at Sands’ side and cradled his head in her lap. Her skirts were writhing snakes and her breasts hung limp and empty, and he was never so grateful that he smelled earth and Mexico and not Parisian perfume.
“No-one asked you here.” This was crossing the line between irony and aggression.
Her fingers combed Sands’ hair, too much Genevieve in that touch for Sands’ comfort. Maybe it was a Mom thing. The claws helped him tell the difference.
“I wanted to see my son’s latest game.”
A clatter of bone on bone as the death-god walked closer. “Which son?”
She adjusted Sands’ sunglasses and brushed his face clean of the flaking blood. He wonder how he looked like in the fading light – black and white and red, like a ceremonial mask.
“The one who protects the poor and the unfortunate.” She sounded fond of the fucker, whoever he was. “I think the Black one considers using a white man to do his bidding amusing.”
“He’s the Night-lord’s?” Good, the death-fucker sounded rattled. Though what the hell’s cesspits was that about doing bidding?
A flute’s shivering cry, and Sands realized it was cold enough to be night. No more sun, no more pain. Maybe it was even cold enough for the cartel fuckers to miss him, provided they were even looking.
“He’s coming.” Genevieve’s voice, his mother’s smile, clawed hands lying him out on the desert floor, spreading his arms and his legs, and he had no strength to move them again.
Bone-rattle, fingers touching his lips. “He’s coming. You’ll wish you’d taken my offer, serpent.”
And it clicked, an old story from Cultural Anthropology, the same fucking class someone had seen on his resumé and decided it made him perfect for Hellhole, Mexico. The Black Night-lord, with his flute and his mirror, the obsidian mirror that showed the truth to eyes that could see. Tempter, changer, protector and Adversary. Tezcatlipoca, Coatlicue’s son, and it figured that even the old bastard Death-King from Mictlan would be scared.
And Tezcatlipoca, Sands remembered, had bells tied to his legs.
Bells like the ones tied to the leg that was prodding him in the ribs.
“They cut my eyes out,” he said. His voice sounded strange, and then he realized he was smiling.
“You’re lucky.” Did the jangling bastard ever sing when he played? He didn’t sound like he’d be much good at it. “In Mexico, they used to cut out prisoners’ hearts.”
“But you got a year of playing King of Mexico first.”
“Get up. We have a long way to walk.”
&FINIS&
Comment? (yes/no/bang!)