Nightmares in Fingerpaint –
(maybe we're just afraid of the prints fate left behind)
– Misstep –
of being in the
wrong place at the wrong time
A/N: This story, despite straying from it's original course and developing a somber tone, is not something I'm not working on super-seriously. Just something to do while I plan meh new Masquerade/Runo fic~
Inspired by the book Just in Case by Meg Rosoff. I strongly recommend it (to those of mature minds). It currently holds second place on my fave books list~. Thanks to it, I have the adorable image of neurotic/clingy!Gus stuck in my head~ :D
Disclaimer: I do not own Bakugan.
Despite having the last three years to clean up its appearance, the countryside hadn't improved.
The layers were miserably familiar; murky grey on top of gloomy green, occasionally split by spindly tree trunks that wearily suffered woody scabs and wilting tangles of branches and leaves. And the rain – pattering mildly, teasingly against the windows – didn't help. Misty sprays blurred the world, could obscure and twist the image of a speeding vehicle beelining for the front of this rickety and stuttering bus—
Sharp pain in the heel of his hand forced him to squeeze his eyes shut, gasping. He sat still, not daring to release a breath until his resistant eyelids could be compelled into fluttering open. They instantly flickered to his palm, where taut fingers had dug crescent marks into the stark flesh.
His hand unraveled, and he leaned his head against the window, pounding temple begging to be soothed by the pane. Now the world passed by through the corner of his eye; boy and universe were separated by a sheet of glass that wobbled in its frame with every pothole and bump. Grey and green glided by smoothly, impersonal and depressingly cold against his brow, like the touch of a phantom—
He jerked away and retreated firmly against the rugged plastic back of the seat, hugging a scruffy satchel decorated with stains and frayed straps closer to his chest. Dragging his eyes away from the laughing pat-pat-pat of an increasingly bleary windowpane, he decided it was time to focus on something much less ominous.
Like the head of the person sitting in front of him. A harmless brown nest of rumpled strands, shining with a few days worth of dirt and grease and likely swarming with lice that bulged with blood and reincarnated plagues…
Before hyperventilation could knock him out, his gaze was averted to his feet, and the toes planted against a muddy black floor where a million other shoes had sat, trailing in who-knows-what from who-knows-where to leave behind as a record of their malevolent presence on this bus.
Clamping his eyes shut with finality, he let out a muffled groan. It was more comforting to stay in this swaying darkness, unaware of the perils crawling within this feeble metal coffin on wheels. He would just let panicked shrieks warn him if they were swerving into a ditch, or the screech of wheels wake him up as hijackers boarded the bus, waving guns and bearing sinister grins as heinous demands were made—
He had walked straight into a trap, it was as simple as that. He'd let his guard down, was left to the mercy of the universe, and this pitiful existence would end in pain and a gruesome death. Here, anyone (or anything) could do as they wish, because Fate was just a bitch like that…absolutely anyone…
-gxm-
He lurched into consciousness in the middle of a half-finished sentence; "—five minutes from Horton."
Dazed, he twisted around, disconcerted by the static click of a speaker being shoved away. It was only after the boy in front of him yawned, lazily stretching his arms to snatch at the bag in the compartment above him did realization kick in. The first step of this ludicrous quest was over.
Squirming in his seat, he winced as his stiff muscles protested against the onslaught of a hundred stabbing pins; he would just have to do his best to ignore the excruciating numbness. Rising from the seat shakily as the bus groaned to a halt, he joined the other three people ambling down the aisle.
The doors squeaked open and he stepped out, one foot on the road and the other on the last step, so that he wouldn't be seized immediately by the glacial breezes and the damp miasma of ozone and mildew. He blinked ruefully into the hazy drizzle; it was foolish, but there had been a tiny part of him hoping that the setting wouldn't match the white noise buzzing amiably around his mind's edges.
A small growl from behind jolted him out of his stupor, and he turned around to meet the sleepy glare of the driver. The man was scratching the stubble lining his jaw with one hand, the other fingering the speaker – most likely planning to unleash a volley of fuzzy swears for holding the bus up. Hastily, the lingering foot stumbled away; the doors rattled shut and the bus was grumbling away without sparing another second.
He watched it – the epitome of rust and spluttering exhaust – disappear into the fog. Shivering in his flimsy jacket and gripping the bag protectively, his expression wavered over saturated sidewalks and dewy grasses, then to the other passengers. Two of them (a young couple, if their linked arms, giggles, and matching suede jackets meant anything) were already scurrying towards one of the houses; the third, however, lingered on the sidewalk.
The boy who had sat in front of him, the one with the grimy hair, shuffled his feet impatiently down the pavement a yard or two before opting to scowl and huddle gloomily under a reddish-brown coat. He glanced his way for a moment, eyebrows raised – but apparently the sight of someone dawdling in the street wasn't particularly interesting, or perhaps he had remembered that it wasn't polite to stare, because he turned away after a second.
Breathing in slowly and cringing as the air tickled his throat, he took a hesitant step forward – he had to go somewhere, after all. Standing out here made him a prime target for kidnappers, homicidal maniacs, hypothermia…
Here in began his dilemma; this stop was as far as his planning had taken him.
Surely he could find a familiar landmark. All he had to remember the name of this street, that the bus had abandoned him on. From there he could easily find his way to a motel or something, though the thought hardly appealed to him. Motels here were ramshackle sore spots on the town, alive with only rodents and mass murderers on the run…
That cheery thought in mind, he found his landmark.
A choked moan followed recognition; the only differences to the dingy house, with its grey walls streaked with mud, was that it crouched behind a smothered lawn of weeds instead of ragged grass, and the windows were void of light and rowdy laughter.
There it stood, a darkened nightmare of crude jokes, pulsing blue veins, gasps and desperate warnings, quicksilver arching almost beautifully from his hand–
"Watch out!"
A girl's shrill cry was followed immediately by the brassy scolding of a horn and squealing wheels. In a movement as jerkily fluent as his imagination he spun around, feet tripping over themselves as a pair of headlights blanched the skies; he tumbled unceremoniously into the sidewalk curb and, most inconveniently, a puddle.
The car hesitated, just enough to splatter a few droplets of rainwater on his jeans – but, according to the driver (who had nearly turned him into roadkill), there was no reason to tarry.
"Are you okay?"
Slender hands were suddenly snatching his arm, his shoulder – where had she come from? – trying to drag him upwards. Instinctively, he flinched out of the grasp, head snapping around; vigilant rabbit to saviour—
(hunter).
Edited August 12th~