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winterIn honour of Halloween, I have the Sin City characters in drag. This is a belated response to a bunny from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
guede_mazaka. I had some trouble with it, and it's still more of a sketch or snapshot than an actual story.
For those who care: I do have a NaNo villain now. Yay me.
Fandom: Sin City
Summary: A night in the middle of A Dame to Kill For, in a world where things are just that little bit different.
Note:guede_mazaka's fault.
Rating: R for mature themes
MIRROR-NIGHT
Midnight, and the Old Town has no bedtime to keep.
I'm on Old Town time now, full-swing and neon-bright. No beauty-sleep to catch either. I let the surgeons take care of that.
I took off the bandages earlier. My face is still puffy and red, but I can see what I look like now. Almond eyes, high cheekbones, and they even managed to get my beak of a nose to look something perkier. Doris McCarthy Mark II cleans up well.
It's a face that wouldn't look out of place on the Old Town streets under this window, full of cocksure women and hip-swaying boys to everyone's taste and temper. For a second I'm tempted to borrow from Gabe's wardrobe again, something tight and black that'd look knock-out hugging my new curves. Anything to kill the time, and I've already sold myself for a smile and a sob-story.
I take a deep breath. Avery will get what's coming to him, I promise myself. He'll get what he's earned with that pout and tear-filled eyes. With hands that got where they weren't wanted and made themselves wanted.
With my own stupidity. I should have known better.
I run through the plan again. Gabe's out collecting the gear, in between boys and girls that pay him to be tied up and tortured. I still don't know why he's helping me, and maybe it doesn't matter. Aging female ex-reporter and a pro dom with caramel-colored skin; like me and Avery, just one of those Sin City things.
Satoshi's keeping an eye out on Avery for me. Deadly little Satoshi, never happier than with blood to look forward to and roofs to climb. I have got to get the kid some regular toys one of these days. Maybe a skateboard.
And that's my instincts talking again. Give me anything male and hurt-looking, and suddenly I'm this prehistoric Amazon, a wolf with cubs, and if a lot of time I end up sleeping with them too, that's just another notch on my record. Avery, Gabe, Jason before either of them, and all the way back to Jake Tanner in kindergarten giving me a peck on the cheek after I broke the arm of the kid who took his candy and before they kicked me out of the place.
Easy, Doris. Gotta keep this down, don't let this monster out.
I look down at my hands. Remember Dana Lord, and Avery's laughter, after.
It's this city that's getting to me. The working girls are fine, tough and sharp, but it's the boys that get to me, brittle-eyed and taut-skinned. Call me prejudiced, but it's not natural, what they do. For a woman, it's a choice, but for them, for boys - men like the twins, Wendell and Silver, who took me in, let me stay here, and they might look old enough to drink, but I can see the hollows of their eyes.
A woman, I think, can, will make peace with such a life. But not the boys, not the men.
Old Town's suffocating me, pulling me under its tide of formalized sin. I want to leave, hit the ground, hit the bottle. Get in a bar fight with Marla by my side, and say what you like about the old brick shithouse, but the girl can hit a lamppost and make it bounce all the way downtown. Lose myself in booze and violence, and forget there was ever a Doris McCarthy, lover of Avery, murderer of Dana.
But there's Avery, like a sore on the tip of my tongue every time I speak, and once that's over, I don't think Old Town's going to let go of me that fast. I owe them - Gabe and Satoshi and all the other boys and girls. They need someone to lurk in the shadows and get rid of people who need to be gone.
I can play the mother hen. Hey, I'm good at it.
A little reconciled with the outcomes of the plan, I lean my head against the window. The glass is cool, rippled. Then it shivers with the ringing of a telephone downstairs.
See, if I were a guy, I'd figure it was none of my business. But I'm not, and it's not my business, but there's this maternal instinct a mile high, and phonecalls past midnight are rarely good news.
Wendell's putting down the receiver when I stumble down the stairs. He's the same as ever - pale skin, paler hair in that Jean Harlow shade, tall and graceful just the way the tricks like it. You gotta look real hard to see how he vibrates, toes the line between poise and panic.
Later, he'll tell me everything, from the moment a scared boy looked at a bar full of nasties and chose the one bigger and badder and more likely to give a shit than anyone else who'd be tempted by a pert ass and nice pecs - that side of the fence, you can have a face like a half-brick, and if you're tough you'll still pull tail. So he didn't go for the machos, but for the broad no-one ever touched. Marla, Marla never stood a chance.
For now, I don't have to ask. The twins are ice, metal, smoother than silk: their schtick and their nature. Only one thing could put this tremble in Wendell's frame, brought his hand to rest on mine when I touch his shoulder. For a second, he lets me support him, and like the fool I am, I hope it might be enough.
Silver's dead.
~FINIS~
guede_mazaka. I had some trouble with it, and it's still more of a sketch or snapshot than an actual story.For those who care: I do have a NaNo villain now. Yay me.
Fandom: Sin City
Summary: A night in the middle of A Dame to Kill For, in a world where things are just that little bit different.
Note:
guede_mazaka's fault.Rating: R for mature themes
MIRROR-NIGHT
Midnight, and the Old Town has no bedtime to keep.
I'm on Old Town time now, full-swing and neon-bright. No beauty-sleep to catch either. I let the surgeons take care of that.
I took off the bandages earlier. My face is still puffy and red, but I can see what I look like now. Almond eyes, high cheekbones, and they even managed to get my beak of a nose to look something perkier. Doris McCarthy Mark II cleans up well.
It's a face that wouldn't look out of place on the Old Town streets under this window, full of cocksure women and hip-swaying boys to everyone's taste and temper. For a second I'm tempted to borrow from Gabe's wardrobe again, something tight and black that'd look knock-out hugging my new curves. Anything to kill the time, and I've already sold myself for a smile and a sob-story.
I take a deep breath. Avery will get what's coming to him, I promise myself. He'll get what he's earned with that pout and tear-filled eyes. With hands that got where they weren't wanted and made themselves wanted.
With my own stupidity. I should have known better.
I run through the plan again. Gabe's out collecting the gear, in between boys and girls that pay him to be tied up and tortured. I still don't know why he's helping me, and maybe it doesn't matter. Aging female ex-reporter and a pro dom with caramel-colored skin; like me and Avery, just one of those Sin City things.
Satoshi's keeping an eye out on Avery for me. Deadly little Satoshi, never happier than with blood to look forward to and roofs to climb. I have got to get the kid some regular toys one of these days. Maybe a skateboard.
And that's my instincts talking again. Give me anything male and hurt-looking, and suddenly I'm this prehistoric Amazon, a wolf with cubs, and if a lot of time I end up sleeping with them too, that's just another notch on my record. Avery, Gabe, Jason before either of them, and all the way back to Jake Tanner in kindergarten giving me a peck on the cheek after I broke the arm of the kid who took his candy and before they kicked me out of the place.
Easy, Doris. Gotta keep this down, don't let this monster out.
I look down at my hands. Remember Dana Lord, and Avery's laughter, after.
It's this city that's getting to me. The working girls are fine, tough and sharp, but it's the boys that get to me, brittle-eyed and taut-skinned. Call me prejudiced, but it's not natural, what they do. For a woman, it's a choice, but for them, for boys - men like the twins, Wendell and Silver, who took me in, let me stay here, and they might look old enough to drink, but I can see the hollows of their eyes.
A woman, I think, can, will make peace with such a life. But not the boys, not the men.
Old Town's suffocating me, pulling me under its tide of formalized sin. I want to leave, hit the ground, hit the bottle. Get in a bar fight with Marla by my side, and say what you like about the old brick shithouse, but the girl can hit a lamppost and make it bounce all the way downtown. Lose myself in booze and violence, and forget there was ever a Doris McCarthy, lover of Avery, murderer of Dana.
But there's Avery, like a sore on the tip of my tongue every time I speak, and once that's over, I don't think Old Town's going to let go of me that fast. I owe them - Gabe and Satoshi and all the other boys and girls. They need someone to lurk in the shadows and get rid of people who need to be gone.
I can play the mother hen. Hey, I'm good at it.
A little reconciled with the outcomes of the plan, I lean my head against the window. The glass is cool, rippled. Then it shivers with the ringing of a telephone downstairs.
See, if I were a guy, I'd figure it was none of my business. But I'm not, and it's not my business, but there's this maternal instinct a mile high, and phonecalls past midnight are rarely good news.
Wendell's putting down the receiver when I stumble down the stairs. He's the same as ever - pale skin, paler hair in that Jean Harlow shade, tall and graceful just the way the tricks like it. You gotta look real hard to see how he vibrates, toes the line between poise and panic.
Later, he'll tell me everything, from the moment a scared boy looked at a bar full of nasties and chose the one bigger and badder and more likely to give a shit than anyone else who'd be tempted by a pert ass and nice pecs - that side of the fence, you can have a face like a half-brick, and if you're tough you'll still pull tail. So he didn't go for the machos, but for the broad no-one ever touched. Marla, Marla never stood a chance.
For now, I don't have to ask. The twins are ice, metal, smoother than silk: their schtick and their nature. Only one thing could put this tremble in Wendell's frame, brought his hand to rest on mine when I touch his shoulder. For a second, he lets me support him, and like the fool I am, I hope it might be enough.
Silver's dead.
~FINIS~
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(no subject)
Date: 2005-10-31 07:17 pm (UTC)Poke me tomorrow and I'll be more specific. Right now am so, so tired. But so much more cheerful now that I've seen this.