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)
marigoldflame2012-01-25 10:14 pm
veira) wrote in marigoldflame2012-01-25 10:14 pm
Entry tags:
phantom
World: Lapfox
Characters: Klippa, Aurastys
Wordcount: 654
Summary: He's holding on, she's looking back when she should be going forward.
The Tumble
She doesn't talk, and that's fine. He's dealt with stranger quirks. He sweeps her in through the heavy steel doors and the disarmed booby traps and all the other zombie deterrents, and the whole time she doesn't say a single word. Her breathing echoes off the crumbling concrete walls, the mean hiss of the respirator and the quiet static heartbeat trickling loose out of her radio. It had been concert loud when he'd found her on the street practically on his doorstop, when he'd felt her out there, felt something coming slowly through the city, tracing through the ambient electrical aether of desiccated London with him pinned at the center and missile lock keening on loud. Down in his studio every speaker had screamed, Geiger counter pops and cracks spitting out no matter how smooth a melody he spun on the tables.
At first he'd though his equipment was finally kaput, wincing and waiting for the quiet little explosion and the smoke that told him yet another of the last tweeters in the world was no more than scrap plastic and fused wires now. But then he'd felt it too, the strange tugging in his heart leading up. Leading out. Leading to the world above and whatever it was up there that he's been dodging down in his studio putting out the weak radio signal that wouldn't mean much for long anymore.
The bat is spiked through with nails and he's used it on a zombie's head more than once. Now it sits back at the entrance, unused today, and instead a slip of a birdgirl paces at his heels down into the earth with the heat getting thicker all the while.
The mouthpiece of her respirator is nearly bolted on. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, hat tucked low, and she's covered from head to toe in the grayed-out wind-blown dust of the destruction of all of society. Her breathing hisses, the cloth of her cloak and her skirt all torn and stitched up in loving care, feathers flat and sharp and dangerous, dangerous like the crushed-in edges of her radio that she must swing head-on as a ten pound sledge hammer out in the wastelands. She steps in through the door of his studio and she pauses, glowing blue eyes blinking once and gliding slow and careful over everything like she'll memorize it with a single glance.
She's far from what people used to be. She something bred to live out there, to thrive out there, and despite the ache of the end, it kindles up a strange hope in him.
Turntables and woofers and keyboards and drum machines. The studio is packed with music equipment, not even counting the instruments and speakers and tired old computers he stores in the wings and the tunnels that curl underground. It's full of how music used to be made, a cello against the wall that he doesn't know how to play but that sometimes he touches, fingers sliding over the smoothness of the wood and the taut strings and the pegs; the past right there and so close but the learning an age away. The world's over now, and so he sits in his chair with headphones off one ear, spinning melody and bass and drums to a sweet slow requiem to remember it all.
Her fingers flutter in the air, eyes on the tiny dead-snow television at the other side of the room. He watches and the static crackles into waves, into order, and he can't help the curiosity of what this girl is.
This is a good place.
The words come laced with interference from her radio, no movement by her mouth. She looks at him, and he knows.
May I sleep for a while?
He blinks, yellow eyes locked on blue, and then he nods.
"Sure. There's a bed in back."
Characters: Klippa, Aurastys
Wordcount: 654
Summary: He's holding on, she's looking back when she should be going forward.
She doesn't talk, and that's fine. He's dealt with stranger quirks. He sweeps her in through the heavy steel doors and the disarmed booby traps and all the other zombie deterrents, and the whole time she doesn't say a single word. Her breathing echoes off the crumbling concrete walls, the mean hiss of the respirator and the quiet static heartbeat trickling loose out of her radio. It had been concert loud when he'd found her on the street practically on his doorstop, when he'd felt her out there, felt something coming slowly through the city, tracing through the ambient electrical aether of desiccated London with him pinned at the center and missile lock keening on loud. Down in his studio every speaker had screamed, Geiger counter pops and cracks spitting out no matter how smooth a melody he spun on the tables.
At first he'd though his equipment was finally kaput, wincing and waiting for the quiet little explosion and the smoke that told him yet another of the last tweeters in the world was no more than scrap plastic and fused wires now. But then he'd felt it too, the strange tugging in his heart leading up. Leading out. Leading to the world above and whatever it was up there that he's been dodging down in his studio putting out the weak radio signal that wouldn't mean much for long anymore.
The bat is spiked through with nails and he's used it on a zombie's head more than once. Now it sits back at the entrance, unused today, and instead a slip of a birdgirl paces at his heels down into the earth with the heat getting thicker all the while.
The mouthpiece of her respirator is nearly bolted on. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, hat tucked low, and she's covered from head to toe in the grayed-out wind-blown dust of the destruction of all of society. Her breathing hisses, the cloth of her cloak and her skirt all torn and stitched up in loving care, feathers flat and sharp and dangerous, dangerous like the crushed-in edges of her radio that she must swing head-on as a ten pound sledge hammer out in the wastelands. She steps in through the door of his studio and she pauses, glowing blue eyes blinking once and gliding slow and careful over everything like she'll memorize it with a single glance.
She's far from what people used to be. She something bred to live out there, to thrive out there, and despite the ache of the end, it kindles up a strange hope in him.
Turntables and woofers and keyboards and drum machines. The studio is packed with music equipment, not even counting the instruments and speakers and tired old computers he stores in the wings and the tunnels that curl underground. It's full of how music used to be made, a cello against the wall that he doesn't know how to play but that sometimes he touches, fingers sliding over the smoothness of the wood and the taut strings and the pegs; the past right there and so close but the learning an age away. The world's over now, and so he sits in his chair with headphones off one ear, spinning melody and bass and drums to a sweet slow requiem to remember it all.
Her fingers flutter in the air, eyes on the tiny dead-snow television at the other side of the room. He watches and the static crackles into waves, into order, and he can't help the curiosity of what this girl is.
This is a good place.
The words come laced with interference from her radio, no movement by her mouth. She looks at him, and he knows.
May I sleep for a while?
He blinks, yellow eyes locked on blue, and then he nods.
"Sure. There's a bed in back."