Two Tattoos
| we make it out alive, alright, alright, no church in the wild |
Note(s): Part two of my multi-fandom music meme; non-powered!au, experimental writing style, Artemis as an activist and Wally as an aspiring scientist. (use of a second person's perspective, Verfremdungseffect, etc.)
Warning(s): violence, graphic depictions of mutilation and death, mentions of animal abuse, traumas, scars, ...
Song: No Church in the Wild by Jay Z, Kanye West ft. Frank Ocean
Pairing(s): Artemis Crock x Wally West (Spitfire) – Bart Allen x Tim Drake (Hummingbird)
Summary: You focus on the girl's shocked features, become her perspective and watch how flames eat the white coat off the scientist's back, lick the remnants of his shirt and white skin. You hear her scream, deafening and desperate.
I hereby disclaim any rights
x
/bird's eye view
Your gaze slides over the flat roof of the pharmaceutical company's main building, follows the white walls as you descend downwards, fixates on the double glass doors for a few seconds before you suddenly whirl around to face the large iron gates, gray and cold, with a pair of security cameras on top of the junction with the menacing stone walls, automatically rotating half a circle. Between the bars, you see a variety of people –some waving wooden signs, donning bold red face paint, wearing sweatbands to state their alliance with certain non-profit organizations and all of them shouting, yelling, angry.- Meaningfully, you come closer to the mob, the edges of your peripheral purposefully blurred to accentuate the protestors, vibrant and alive in their indignation.
You focus on a several people: a senior citizen in beige shorts, holding a piece ripped off from a cardboard box with 'Free the animals' scribbled in stark black; a girl with Asian features, cheeks aflame from the summer heat and hollering at a security guard, her arms expressively moving about to prove a point; and you pause at a boy whose face is obscured by the hood from his sweater, with a backpack strapped to his back and a peace sign on his chest.
There's a commotion from behind you, the ruckus starts softly, just a faint noise amongst a cacophony of voices, but as the volume increases you are instructed to turn slowly. Here you are met by the sight of three employees passing through the slightly opened gates: one of them is remarkably young, an intern, with flaming red hair and pale freckled cheeks, the other two are middle-aged women in their non-descript coats and standard issued shoes. Their appearance has caused some turmoil amongst the protestors, who rush forwards to the protective fences, fortified by the presence of a dozen of security guards, and ready themselves to fling insults to the newcomers. Several of the activists throw empty cans and water bottles to the employees. You follow the trajectory of a Budweiser, observes closely how the container collides painfully with the right shoulder of one of the women and scrutinize her face –how her brows furrow, how her hand immediately shoots up to cover her shoulder, how her eyelids briefly slide shut.
/close-up
His nostrils flare, you take some time to follow the pattern of freckles on his skin while he turns to his colleague and snaps his head back to the crowd. You pay extra attention to the corners of his mouth and eventually take a few steps back when he begins to speak.
"What the fuck is wrong with you people?! We're just tryin' to do our work, which, y'know, is pretty damned important in the process of developing a cure for aids of all diseases."
You snap back to the protestors, regard the emotive expressions on their faces for a split-second before you latch onto the Asian girl from before. She pushes through the people and puts both of her hands on the fence separating her directly from the intern. There's a full body-shot scheduled at this time and some of the activists consciously go a few steps backwards to give you the required view. You blur out the remaining protestors around her, making her body a sharp contrast against the other people.
"Oh, excuse us for taking a stand here. Taking a stand for the defenseless mice and rabbits your corporation has locked up in teeny-tiny cages, the animals you stuff with antipsychotics and narcotics, the animals you dump in the trash when they're of no further use!"
Her speech is followed by cheers and whistles. You focus on the boundless determination in her eyes. Then you quickly whirl around to give the intern the same treatment, zooming in on his green irises. /the director will use this footage in a split-screen scene/
"Everything we do is according to the legal restrictions. I bet you people haven't even bothered to do some intensive research on this facility. Figures, as long as you can pull out the torches and pitchforks, right? Do me a favor and get. Out. Of. My face."
He grits his teeth, bristles and as he is about to turn to the other two scientists, the girl grabs at him and pulls at his sleeve. You pay attention to her strong grip, to her tanned fingers holding the fabric and follow the trail of her arm to her shoulder, to her neck, to her profile.
You proceed to obscure her features in order to draw attention to the boy in the hoodie, who takes advantage of the situation to discard his backpack near the guard post by the gates. He nods to someone away from your vision, off-screen, and slinks back amidst the masses, just a black spot in a crowd of kaki's and whites and sunburned skin. During this scene a flashback will be added, but you still have to record the footage of a homemade bomb being prepared by the boy and a couple of his companions first. Afterwards, there will be a fade-in to the current events, with the intern and the activist girl flowing from a grayscale to bright colors. Their fight will be ongoing during the entire sequence only to be broken up by the explosion. There are discussions between the screenplay-writer and the director whether the preparation and ingredients /Semtex, wiring, brand of electronics,…/ will be added in text onscreen.
You are standing in front of the two, your gaze resting directly on the space between them –the outline of the guard post, a make-shift box with a window and with ammunition, water bottles, batons and pepper spray cans inside- and you effortlessly slide between their linked arms to zoom in on the wayward black backpack. It's scheduled you take one minute to record all the details; the zipper, the logo, the straps and the clasps. After the intensive look-over, the bomb inside goes off.
/fast-forward; snapshots of the blast fill the screen: how the guard post is completely erased, how the first three rows of people are being smacked to the ground by the impact, some people are shown crying with coal-black cheeks, frayed eyebrows, skin ripped off their chests and kneecaps. One meaningful picture of a teenager, missing both of his legs, bleeding to death on the concrete in black/white, another image of a senior citizen missing the skin around her neck walking around in a daze, blood and dismembered limbs on the ground. Crumbled walls, the gates blown from their hinges, smoke, debris, the iron fences toppled over, fade-in/
You're back to the intern and the activist, watch how the ginger-haired guy jumps over the iron fence and slams the girl to the ground to protect her from the bricks whirling past their heads. There's fire, enforced by a second blast, and smoke curls all around them, thick gray clouds lingering in their mouths and nostrils. You focus on the girl's shocked features, become her perspective and watch how flames eat the white coat off the scientist's back, lick the remnants of his shirt and white skin. You hear her scream, deafening and desperate. She pushes him off of her, throws him on his back to extinguish the fire and shakes him in panic. She tries to drag him away from the excessive heat, sweating heavily and crying silently.
He tries to communicate, you zoom in on his Adam's apple and how it bobs rapidly, but the words die in his throat. Your gaze slides over his burnt black arms, over his corpse-pale cheeks, over his wide eyes. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wail.
/scene jump
The location you're currently at is a hospital room with blank walls and machinery buzzing lowly against the walls; you are pressed against the ceiling, looking down on the scientist underneath white sheets on the hospital bed, you zoom in on the tubes attached to his right arm, follow the transparent trail to the plastic catheter with fluids inside and promptly swirl around to regard the bouquet on the nightstand. His eyes are closed and he is rearranged to appear tranquil, for the visitors' sakes.
You've already filmed the previous scene with the necessary eye for detail: a trunk shot of the operation table, focus on the green outfits of the surgeons and the tools in their gloved hands, and a few long-lasting images of the scientist's backside, charred and bleeding. /the director debates whether he should cut up the screen in four different slots featuring the skin-transplantation, the scientist's parents and relatives visiting, the site of the bomb and the activist sitting by his side simultaneously. It's decided that the dialogue between the then conscious ginger and the girl will be played softly in the background./
"Oh.. You're alive.. Thank, thank God, I mean.. Why did you even jump over that fence like that? I.."
"Uh.. Don't be fooled by my appearance, missy. I know I look great, but I feel like shit. Are.. Are you okay?"
"Thanks to you.. Just some minor wounds on my arms, itches like a bitch, but yeah.."
"I got them on a place I just can't reach, hehe.. So, uh, why are you here?"
"Paying a visit to the carrot top that saved my life. Bought him a teddy bear. Ignore the lovey-dovey heart though." –close up on the stuffed animal, you make sure to add extra emphasis to the words.
"Sweet, he a looker?"
"Can't complain.. His middle name is Rudolph though.. I mean, who names their kid Wallace Rudolph West?"
"He must've been bullied like crazy.. So, uh, what's your name?"
"Artemis.. Artemis Crock. Nice to meet you, and uhum, sorry for putting you in a hospital bed."
"My own fucking fault really. Nice to meet you too, 'd love to shake your hand but you're already holding onto it for dear life or something. No, no, don't pull away, you're pretty warm."
While the dialogue is in full motion, the images move: you follow the movement from the family; how they grab onto his hand or murmur sweet nothings into his ear, you pay extra attention to the bomb site; to the coal-black protest signs on the ground and the remnants of the brick wall. You have to sit silently in the back of the hospital room to film the interactions between the activist and the scientist in profile, only zooming in to gather the emotions on their features. You record how their banter goes from witty to flirty, how the crease between his eyebrows deepens when the bombing is mentioned or when he tries to sit up-right, how she helps him drink, what she looks like when the nurses change his bandages, how they converse and hold hands.
There are several dialogues put on film and the director isn't quite sure which one would get the point of this across: you're watching them in a dimly lit room, their faces are streaked white and a shade of deep dark gray, their fingers are entwined and you're positioned so you have a clear view of the entire room. Sometimes you come closer, slowly, to show the progress of moving and take shots of the flowers, the elastic band holding her long blonde hair together in a ponytail or his status report.
"They're ugly, okay? I.. It's like someone dragged a rake down my back." His voice shakes and you make a close up of his flustered cheeks.
She shakes her head gently, puts her hand on his shoulder and leans over his form, "They're a reminder of what you've been through, of what a hero you are.. They're beautiful because they show you're alive." You focus on how her fingers curl into the material of his hospital gown.
Wally offers a tiny smile, "You know.. When I first met you, I thought you were such a pain in the ass. Shouting like you did, red-faced, fists clenched and I thought, goddamn, she's a real spitfire. She could bite my balls off and chew them back out in my face. But.. But I.. I was wrong, not about you being able to rip off my testicles, nope, one hundred percent certain you could do that, but about you being a pain in the ass. And.. You were right."
"Right about what? The scars?" You observe how the corners of her mouth tilt upwards in appreciation to his declaration.
His smile widens, until it's a full-fledged toothy grin, "Still not convinced 'bout those, but about those animals. And about the corporation bein' wrong."
There are other dialogues, with him and her and his family in one room or just the two of them outside of the hospital in the open air. You personally find the conversation about getting tattoos the most relevant, the most poignant. It's the last dialogue you had to film before moving on with the plot, before leaving the scientist and his soon-to-be girlfriend behind. You are in the hallway, positioned near the door leading to Wally's hospital room and staring diagonally at the foursome, constituting out of the scientist, the activist, his cousin and the cousin's boyfriend.
You zoom in on the boyfriend's backside, from the crown of his head –you are instructed to glide down his body slowly, to take extra note of the lighting for the boy's black, black hair- down to his ankles. He speaks but you can't see his front, but you manage to spot a pale frail earlobe between his sable strands.
"Are you certain you want to get a tattoo near the transplanted skin?" The cousin squeezes his hand, you can actually see his profile quite nicely; the curve of his nose and the arch of his right eyebrow. He's smiling widely, in encouragement.
Wally is in a wheelchair, his legs are still healing from the impact of the blast but he'll be able to walk soon enough the doctors have assured him, and Artemis is positioned behind him, her hands flat on his shoulders. One of his hands covers the back of hers. You zoom in on the knuckles even though you have received no instructions to do so.
"Timmy, don't be dispiriting! It'll be awesome and really awe-inspiring, and are you getting something symbolic? You won't be doing anything tribal, right? Because I know this guy who has a neighbor who wanted a tribal tat but it looked awful. Or maybe the artist just wasn't good enough.." While the cousin keeps rambling on Artemis allows a smirk to curl upon her plump lips.
She leans in and whispers into his ear, "Is Bart always this talkative? Or is that just a West-thing?"
He shakes his head fondly, "Can't be. Everyone in our family just likes to talk." He then turns towards his cousin and you get a frontal image of his face; it looks better, healthier, with color in his cheeks and a certain fierceness in his eyes. "I was considering to get two lightning bolts, make them flow forth from the two large scars on my back."
"And an inspirational quote?" Tim ponders aloud and you hope the sound guy manages to get the subtle amusement in his voice crystal clear.
Artemis straightens, squares her shoulders, "As long as he doesn't go for love conquers all or something mushy, I'm fine with it."
"And here I was going for I stand by you, walk through the fire." Wally chuckles and you are so close to his face you can count every tooth in the cavern of his mouth.
Tim turns to the blonde girl and you catch his profile too, his eyes are blue and his nose is small but somewhat cute. "And how about yourself?"
Bart chimes in, you follow his movements up-close. "Yeah, Artie- I'ma call you Artie now, you look like an Artie, very hipster-chic and political-awareness hip. Do people still say hip? Anyway, are you getting a matching lightning bolt? Or a Pikachu? You look like you've collected Pokemon cards.."
She huffs and rolls her eyes at the incessant rambling, "I was thinking about no apologies." His fingers rub over her knuckles softly, sweetly. You capture the moment before turning away meaningfully, because right about here the director is going to add a fade-out and switch to the police inspectors.
"And cut." The director calls, but the scene goes on, you just aren't allowed to record anymore. "Good job, Conner. We'll be going to the police station now. There you will follow officer Grayson, who is leading the case."
You turn back to the couple one more time and nod listlessly. You shut off the camera and walk through the hallway, in the direction of the elevators. There's no need to be hasty or unreasonably slow and it feels refreshing to walk in a regular pace again. You push the elevator button and grab onto the strap of your bag, slung around your shoulder. The doors slide open and you step inside, turn around to face the hallway and sigh deeply. You should be thinking about the electricity bills, about what your girlfriend has made for dinner, but you find yourself hoping you'll manage to capture the couple's tattoos one day. Maybe.
.
.
I live by you, desire
I stand by you, walk through the fire
Your love is my scripture, let me into your encryption
.
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x
Penny for your thoughts?