A/N: Freewrite, fifteen minutes. For "15minuteficlets."
A/N: In the Japanese version of Chrono Cross, Nikki's called Slash. I'm trying to stay true to it.
"Prism Pick"
S.S. Zelbess all docked up in some miserable oil port and Slash is sure the birds are out, but he can't see them. He's sitting atop the vanity in his dressing room with empty makeup containers all around, brushing hollows in an excess of mascara, sooty black. The mirror never lies and the mirror knows everything--and it frightens him a little bit, that a piece of glass could know so much about him and be so unforgiving about it.
The floor rocks with the movement of the bay. There's a spider in the corner, black spider with a body like a round bead, and Slash is ready to crush it beneath the bottom of the eyeliner pot if it moves. Flat spider, bleeding out, legs twitching up round the edges. He's spiderthin himself and his legs are just as long, but he doesn't have sympathy for it. The rouge's almost depleted; the lifestyle takes lot of rouge, and Slash pulls a platform boot from the floor. Two of them. One red and one black, just to make him taller and keep him at odds with himself.
The eyeliner pot goes rolling off the vanity when the deck pitches, comfortable creak like a long stretch. It hits the floor and the lid pops off, shoddy seal but maybe he hadn't screwed it shut the first time, and Slash mutters an oath as the black paint splatters on the boards. It's all about style, it's always been about style, and he can't ever dare to show the world a face that hasn't been doctored. His attacks look like something out of a comic book, but the signature is there, and the damage is always done. All one-hundred-fifteen pounds are put to use, and he's not the son of a pirate for nothing. Mad devotion to a guitar the color of mercury and hell on wheels.
topic:
devotion
A/N: In the Japanese version of Chrono Cross, Nikki's called Slash. I'm trying to stay true to it.
"Prism Pick"
S.S. Zelbess all docked up in some miserable oil port and Slash is sure the birds are out, but he can't see them. He's sitting atop the vanity in his dressing room with empty makeup containers all around, brushing hollows in an excess of mascara, sooty black. The mirror never lies and the mirror knows everything--and it frightens him a little bit, that a piece of glass could know so much about him and be so unforgiving about it.
The floor rocks with the movement of the bay. There's a spider in the corner, black spider with a body like a round bead, and Slash is ready to crush it beneath the bottom of the eyeliner pot if it moves. Flat spider, bleeding out, legs twitching up round the edges. He's spiderthin himself and his legs are just as long, but he doesn't have sympathy for it. The rouge's almost depleted; the lifestyle takes lot of rouge, and Slash pulls a platform boot from the floor. Two of them. One red and one black, just to make him taller and keep him at odds with himself.
The eyeliner pot goes rolling off the vanity when the deck pitches, comfortable creak like a long stretch. It hits the floor and the lid pops off, shoddy seal but maybe he hadn't screwed it shut the first time, and Slash mutters an oath as the black paint splatters on the boards. It's all about style, it's always been about style, and he can't ever dare to show the world a face that hasn't been doctored. His attacks look like something out of a comic book, but the signature is there, and the damage is always done. All one-hundred-fifteen pounds are put to use, and he's not the son of a pirate for nothing. Mad devotion to a guitar the color of mercury and hell on wheels.
topic:
devotion