is not actually a Lotus Exige (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
veira) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
marigoldflame2011-12-22 12:46 am
veira) wrote in marigoldflame2011-12-22 12:46 am
Entry tags:
drophead
World: Lapfox
Characters: Aurasys, Klippa
Wordcount: 506
Summary: Like attracts like. She finds a beat in the wasteland.
Rising Ruins
The world has long since stopped being what it was. The sky crackles with lightning, the threat of rain that will never fall. The ground is parched. Dust swirls in the cracks and crevices. Buildings are crumbling skeletons, rusted rebar ribs cracked open and bared to the elements as their cement flesh erodes away. Grit blows into her eyes and she blinks, once then twice before her secondary eyelids clear. She breathes, the hiss of a respirator in the otherwise silence of the street. The stoplights are long since dead, everything dead, electricity no longer a lifeblood to be taken for granted. She walks along the cracked street, three-toed footprints left in her wake and nothing ahead for her to find.
London's buildings are eroding. Everyone is gone. But still, the music waivers in and out like a heartbeat.
Her radio is ancient, beaten and broken and held together with duct-tape and love. The speakers are nearly clogged with dust, the cassette player long since useless with grit and grime. Squeaks and metal screams spit out of it at random. It hisses raw static, white noise fading and cresting like the pull of the moon. A noise drone like the breathing of a dying man. It's essential to her. Without it, she's not sure what she would be.
But here, here in dead desiccated London, the constant hiss of her radio changes. In the silence, the quiet disjointed white noise fades out, another song fading in with a true beat, regular and slow like the pumping of blood. Something calling her. And so she walks, feet pressing prints into the detritus of London as the sky threatens to fall.
A lamp post has toppled, wires snapped and hanging limp everywhere, the intersection a tangled rats' nest of old humanity. She steps closer and the radio comes to life. Music. Real music spilling out of the dusty speakers. It startles her and she stands flighty as a spooked bird, ready to flee, her eyes glancing everywhere as she turns slowly.
Because music means someone is here. Someone alive. And she cannot remember seeing a single person other than herself alive before.
The building on the corner, big plate-glass windows somehow still unbroken. She sees something through the dusty glass, something moving, something with a purpose. Her legs are ready to run, ready to fight if she has to. She grips the radio in one hand, a mace she's swung into murderous zombies before. She takes a hissing breath through the bubble-filter of her respirator.
The shop door opens with a jarring kick, steel rattling, cracked and warped along the edges. He steps out—he's all spikes and bulk and piercing yellow eyes, yellow and uncovered, his mouth uncovered, his whole face exposed and entirely unafraid of this raw, toxic apocalypse of a world.
Her radio pumps with a bassline so loud it vibrates up the handle and into her bones.
He blinks. He nods. And then he turns back into his shop and calls, "Come on in."
Characters: Aurasys, Klippa
Wordcount: 506
Summary: Like attracts like. She finds a beat in the wasteland.
The world has long since stopped being what it was. The sky crackles with lightning, the threat of rain that will never fall. The ground is parched. Dust swirls in the cracks and crevices. Buildings are crumbling skeletons, rusted rebar ribs cracked open and bared to the elements as their cement flesh erodes away. Grit blows into her eyes and she blinks, once then twice before her secondary eyelids clear. She breathes, the hiss of a respirator in the otherwise silence of the street. The stoplights are long since dead, everything dead, electricity no longer a lifeblood to be taken for granted. She walks along the cracked street, three-toed footprints left in her wake and nothing ahead for her to find.
London's buildings are eroding. Everyone is gone. But still, the music waivers in and out like a heartbeat.
Her radio is ancient, beaten and broken and held together with duct-tape and love. The speakers are nearly clogged with dust, the cassette player long since useless with grit and grime. Squeaks and metal screams spit out of it at random. It hisses raw static, white noise fading and cresting like the pull of the moon. A noise drone like the breathing of a dying man. It's essential to her. Without it, she's not sure what she would be.
But here, here in dead desiccated London, the constant hiss of her radio changes. In the silence, the quiet disjointed white noise fades out, another song fading in with a true beat, regular and slow like the pumping of blood. Something calling her. And so she walks, feet pressing prints into the detritus of London as the sky threatens to fall.
A lamp post has toppled, wires snapped and hanging limp everywhere, the intersection a tangled rats' nest of old humanity. She steps closer and the radio comes to life. Music. Real music spilling out of the dusty speakers. It startles her and she stands flighty as a spooked bird, ready to flee, her eyes glancing everywhere as she turns slowly.
Because music means someone is here. Someone alive. And she cannot remember seeing a single person other than herself alive before.
The building on the corner, big plate-glass windows somehow still unbroken. She sees something through the dusty glass, something moving, something with a purpose. Her legs are ready to run, ready to fight if she has to. She grips the radio in one hand, a mace she's swung into murderous zombies before. She takes a hissing breath through the bubble-filter of her respirator.
The shop door opens with a jarring kick, steel rattling, cracked and warped along the edges. He steps out—he's all spikes and bulk and piercing yellow eyes, yellow and uncovered, his mouth uncovered, his whole face exposed and entirely unafraid of this raw, toxic apocalypse of a world.
Her radio pumps with a bassline so loud it vibrates up the handle and into her bones.
He blinks. He nods. And then he turns back into his shop and calls, "Come on in."