imported_Scathe

A chilly wind played with the strands of Scathe's hair, twisting and toying around the girl as she sat on her porch, her back against the wall beside the balcony doorway; still lacking a door. Wax paper drifted lazily beside her, snapping softly in the breeze. One leg was bent, her boot pressed into slatted, white washed wooden planks, the other extended straight before her. Vester, her gift, her beloved puppy, lay beside her with his head on her thigh, looking up at the hands that idly strummed a guitar.

Steel strings shifted beneath her fingers, plucking out a melancholy tune, smooth cherry finish glistening beneath wrapped hands and wrists. Several chords repeated, humming from an amp on the other side of the porch, the gentle squeak of calloused fingers adjusting against strings apparently a part of her song.

Her voice was low, carrying the same unfinished, husky note as when she spoke. She did not sing with a diva's talent, did not have the range and simple power of those born to greatness, but somewhere along the dreamlike past she had received lessons, and control tempered the pure emotion of low alto tones.

I want to be a good woman
And I want, for you to be a good man.
This is why I will be leaving
And this is why, I can’t see you no more.
I will miss your heart so tender
And I will love
This love forever

The girl's head fell back against the wall, eyes lifting towards the sky for a moment, watching steel colored clouds creep across the dying daylight. It had seemed so long that the darkness reigned, aligning with the pit in her heart, the disappointment and sorrow, the anger and frustration. Now the darkness still existed, but, like a ray of sunshine piercing those clouds above, small glimmers of hope and cheer had begun to surface.

I don’t want be a bad woman
And I can’t stand to see you be a bad man
I will miss your heart so tender
And I will love
This love forever
And this is why I am leaving
And this is why I can’t see you no more
This is why I am lying when I say
That I don’t love you no more

The wind died, strands of unreal red falling to frame her gradually lowered face, eyes the color of the horizon, a deep blue that harbored night, matching the gaze of Vester. A small smile, sad, crooked, deepening lines of stress and hardship beside her mouth, caused her words to falter momentarily. The dog shifted, claws scrabbling against the porch floor, and lifted his head to fix her with a steady, sympathetic stare. One paw touched the side of her leg gently, the wings that stretched along his flanks drooping with his tail. There was intelligence in his eyes, a spark of fire much like hers that seemed to glow behind dark irises, and mirrored her grief.

Cause I want ... be a good woman
And I want for you to be a good man

As her trembling fingers strove to finish the last notes of the song the puppy's voice lifted in a low whine. Scathe set the guitar aside and hoisted the puppy to her lap, gaze lifting out towards the city beyond the bars of her balcony, viewed like a prisoner. Her hands lost their shake, stroking his dark fur, fingertips sliding along the short length of stubby little horns on his head. Even with the onset of night, the loss of the day and its new relief of light and hope, she did not feel alone. She did not feel unloved. She would be good where before she had not, and she would lose much because of it, but for the right reasons.

Within her mind's eye his face floated, minute details brought into extreme focus. He was the other one, the older one, the one she had grown to respect, to admire, to desire and perhaps to love. He was also the first one to reject her. Ever.

Dog and human watched the last rays of light fall together in comfortable silence, and with the day bled the harshness of Scathe's pain, the edge and bite that had caused her soul to ache, her spirit to feel as though it would crack. Life was not perfect, nor would it ever be. They would hurt, others would conspire against them, and they would succumb to the dumb pain of fate, but neither would be alone. Neither would break.

(( Song is Good Woman by Cat Power. I <3 Slip for sharing it with me ))

~Like I said... social niceties = bad. Jumping forward a few months, this is one of those "it can't get any worse" situations. Obviously it can.~

Scathe flew. Muscles trembling, eyes narrowed against the stinging cold of high, whispy clouds, she flew. Hands fisted at her sides, a grimace of pain and anguish on her face, she soared where birds had no place, where the air became thin and her lungs burned with the effort to draw enough oxygen. Talos Island unfolded beneath her, looking small and beautiful in the night, glimmering steel and glass mixed with brilliant green, the ocean licking at its edges. A single spire rose towards her as her altitude lowered, a familiar place she now called 'home' in the loosest sense of the word. White drapes fluttered out a high up balcony doorway, tangled by the storm driven wind.

With sudden finality her body became dense once more, a crackle seemed to sound within her ears, and she barely had time to tuck into a loose ball as she hurtled through two thick glass doors, the shrill scream of breaking glass mingling with her own terrified cry of surprise and pain as she tumbled, cracking her spine against the massive coffee table just within. The wood faired worse than she, splintering and shattering, a little mini fridge tucked inside the center of the table toppling over, releasing a spill of bottles and miniature ice trays.

Sprawled within the mess, clothing torn and makeup smeared across her face in a macabre gray mask, Scathe groaned out choking sobs and stared through salty, stinging blood at the ceiling above. Eventually her hands lifted, shedding cubed bits of gummy safety glass, and with the ever present resiliency of youth, muttered, "Couldn't have come in through the open side..."

Her voice cracked and sobs resumed as she stood shakily, testing her weight to check for broken bones. Bonus... she thought, and glanced in irritation at the ruined coffee table. On wobbling legs she moved slowly through the apartment, one hand dragging twisted bloody shapes against the freshly painted, eggshell colored walls. Down the hall, to the bathroom she stumbled, and flicked on the light with a little wince as the switch tapped against an embedded splinter of wood in her finger.

The spectre in front of her was ghastly, pale and wan, shivering with shock and cold, torn, bloody, covered in glass and, like a slap in the face, that smeared makeup again. Her eyes were bloodshot, and not just from lack of sleep and an abundance of stress. A large gash swept across her forehead, already turning purple around the edges, a glimmer of bone peeking through between the heartbeats that pumped a sheed of blood over her face and into her eyes.

Scathe pursed her lips and blew a kiss at the image in the mirror, blowing a small spout of flame out with the action. She sighed, watching the horror mimic her, and fell into a kind of standing stupor; mind reverting to events earlier that day.

She stood in front of Slipshod, dressed to kill and feeling like crap, as she explained to him why it didn't seem to be working out between them. Nevermind the fact that she had essentially narced on him to Fox two days before. Her hope had still been that he'd understand, apologize maybe or, her favorite fantasy, grab her and kiss her the way he used to. Before. When he was possessed. It wasn't going at all right, he barely seemed to grasp what she was saying, and the way he looked at her made her heart shrivel. She hated herself at that moment, hated him for making her feel bad, and had felt relief when he angrily turned and left. Lowering her head, Scathe stared down at her daring outfit, the sleek lines of muscle beneath tanned skin, perfect curves of a young woman blessed with beauty, and suddenly felt awkward, foolish, young and angry.

Later, a friend's room at the institute... exposed. Scathe stared, wide-eyed, at the girl who'd walked in on them. She'd heard the name but never had the pleasure. The guilt she'd been fighting, the fury kept smothered by tight control, seemed to triple and the room had risen a few degrees. It was his girlfriend, of course. That only made sense, all things considered.

"If you meant it, when you said you loved her, act like it," Parting words from the disenchanted. They sounded great in her head and made her stomach twist and turn when spoken. She had sought solace in a friend, a reaffirmation of self, with the simple, lackluster hope that it might make her feel better to... well, feel good. She hadn't known about the girl, hadn't known what would happen. It was all her fault. Once again, guilt tore through her like a scythe.

She left, hoping things could for once be made right, and took in a few emergency contracts. The fire, the smell of heat, the satisfying crunch of bone and armor beneath her fists. It was a blur of memory, a teasing hint at the release she might never find, the satisfaction she could not seem to reach. A man's face swam up at her from the dark, the stink of Rikti blood heavy on her clothing and in the air. Corpses littered a hallway, drones shattered against walls.

"The Rikti told us you'd been harassing them..." his face seemed to swim and warp in front of her eyes, his pleading, pitiful voice took on a pathetic whine to her ears, "... invited you here... just wanted us to lure you into a trap..." Scathe's head snapped to the side as if struck by a blow, her eyes shut, her teeth clenched until it felt they would pop beneath the pressure. Her left hand shot out, gathered the front of the man's rumpled shirt. The right had balled up into a fist, lifting near her head, and as his eyes seemed to grow too wide for his skull, smashed down, another, less satisfying crunch heard as his jaw cracked beneath her knuckles.

That was when the phone rang. Her fist was raised again for another swing, her eyes blinded by a swarm of black butterflies. With a thud the hostage fell to the ground and Scathe straightened, inhaled, and answered her phone.

Again at the institute, standing outside an isolation cell, staring in at him as he huddled, naked on the cot. Ada had removed his clothing and comm, taking away possibilities for weapons against himself, and left him an untouched stack of hospital slacks and plain shirt.

"If you don't trust me... well... " he said. He'd been jovial, strangely boyuant. Her stomach turned again as the image of him sitting there, perched on the cot, alone and insane, reminded her suddenly of her mother.

Somehow she'd made it into her room, scattered droplets of blood leaving a twisted version of Hanzel's breadcrumb trail behind her. Her thumb punched numbly against the auto dial, and she lifted the receiver to her ear.

"Yes... hello Stacy, this is Scathe. I won't be in ... today. Maybe a few. Yes. Thank you. I'll patch over a forwarding address for contracts, if I can. Thanks again. Bye." Scathe's voice was cold. Her skin felt clammy and sticky. Her brain was numb, playing an avoidance game with the maelstrom of self loathing battering constantly at her mind. The receiver dropped back to the set with a clatter of finality, and Scathe crumpled to the bed.

Too bone weary to weep, too brain dead to think and too broken to get up and fix herself, she stared at the ceiling in silence and eventually drifted off to sleep. Outside the storm broke, sheets of icy rain falling with October's jealous chill, freezing wind and water soaking the drapes in the living room and swirling throughout the apartment.

(( Heat up, hmm? You've always been a tease, dare I hope for an exception? Keep at it, darlin'. Don't keep me waiting. ))

~This is actually an old piece moved over from my SG's boards. I need a place to throw down some stories fluttering in my head, and thought a bit of introduction would be in order before jumping right off. For the many that have never met her, Scathe is a 20 year old pyrokinetic, somewhat cliche in her temper and free spirit, and tends to get herself into trouble with social niceties. This is her first flight; it took place about a year ago.~

Eloise Chalice stood on the edge of a cliff made of metal and concrete, glass and plastic. Thick soled Doc Marten’s scuffled against the pebbled blacktop of a skyscraper’s roof, dropping bits of shattered rock to tumble against geometric walls, clattering to the ground below. She slowly lifted her hand and removed her glasses, carefully folding the wire frames and tucking one earpiece into her hip pocket. She wanted to see this for all that it was, not lose detail behind the yellow lenses that reduced the world to shapes without color.

Eulogy. His name was Eulogy. She couldn’t remember what his birth name was, but it didn’t matter. Eulogy. The young man had told her a story, as they sat beneath a tree in Gemini Park, enjoying late afternoon sunshine and a rare lack of violence in their lives. Eloise had not seen him since.

“I was rock climbing, and I slipped…” Despite the single, brief meeting, his voice rang quite clear and concise in her head. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about his tale. “I fell, I thought it was over for sure. My eyes were shut, so I didn’t notice at first, but I realized I wasn’t falling anymore. That’s how I found out I could fly.” He had smiled, probably embarrassed at the strange way in which this power had manifested. The conversation lagged, then moved on to other things.

Leaning forward, Eloise found herself buffeted by wind, threatening to tear her off the sky scraper before she was ready. She squeaked and tried to right her balance, experiencing a sudden gust of vertigo. Like a jilted lover the wind pushed back, and she reached out to grab one of the sharpened, three meter spikes that crowned the building like a ring of thorns.

“For the birds…” she murmured. Courage returned, Eloise took a single step, and fell. Hurtling through the air, she spread her arms, mouth lifting into a cherubic smile framed by light dimples. The wind of her passage whipped strands of unreal red hair about her head and face, jeans flapping against her legs.

As though viewed through a rapidly zooming lens, the world below sharpened and began to close in, seeming to gain speed the faster she approached the flat gray concrete death below. Resignation and disappointment registered, and with a sigh she closed her eyes, waiting for the flat smack of flesh striking solid ground, a sound she likely wouldn’t hear.

Wings seemed to flutter past her ears, and in her mind’s eye Eloise could see a bird, a broad, golden eagle spreading its wings, pinions pumping against the air. The image was beautific, sunlight bouncing off feathers as the bird gained its mastery of the skies. A single tear rolled from the corner of her eye, lost to the wind, and deep within something broke. She seemed to know it would feel this way, the control, the total exhaustion of effort.

The daily humdrum of life below was broken for an instant that few would bother remembering that night as they returned to their homes and micro-waved meals, some alone and some shared with loved ones. A cry echoed through the steel mountains of the Row, like that of an eagle gaining its first taste of a noble birthright. Though wordless, the cry seemed to say “I am free! I am wild and unchained!”

What remained of Eloise Chalice drifted to the ground, a discarded husk of a girl’s mind, burnt and scarred by the world long ago. Overhead, staring in wonder at the great pattern unfolding beneath her, Scathe coasted warm updrafts, feeling the sun against her skin, the sound of wings heavy in her ears and a scream of release on her lips.

Hey look, I can visit the boards again! Keep writing. That's an order, kiddo.

Besides, as my faithful disciple you must spread love of Scathe throughout the galaxy. Get to work!