A/N: This story was written just for the heck of it. Horde's still my project of doom, but I wasn't in a morose enough mood to work on it and this has been sitting around for months now, so I thought I'd fix it up and have some fun. Okay, some of the conversations on Evowriters acted as a bit of a prompt as well. Originally a very very very long roleplay transcript, but names and roles and characters have been removed to protect the innocent--this is pretty much all Olhado. I'm sorry.
Warnings: If you feel like you're being mocked by this story, flame me, because my ego depends on the occasional flame. Even if I'm only mocking myself, I'd love to offend everyone else while I'm at it. It gives me a feeling of power.
Ratings: PG for violence, implied swearing, gimmicky writing, OCs, illogical pairings, and, if I feel daring, an implication of an implication of something of a sexual nature.
The halls were empty and the punk's footsteps were almost too loud on the tile. There was something eerie about the total desertion of the school--and it really shouldn't have been eerie, because he had just served detention for two hours and there wasn't any reason for anyone else to be there. But it was still eerie. He walked faster, eager for open sky. Past the closed-up office and out the doors and he was not alone. Despite the time, there was some kid huddled out on the steps. The punk approached carefully, rather miffed that he wasn't the only person within miles--which would have been more fun.
"Hey." The kid jerked up his head as if awakened from a trance. He was a skinny Native looking sort . . . with thin eyes that were a straight black--i.e. no differentiated iris. Kinda creepy, really. First eerie, now creepy, hi ho. "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for my dad." Careful, controlled tone. What, does he think I look like trouble? He'd be right, man, he'd be right.
"Kinda a strange place to be waiting for your dad. School's been out for hours . . . "
"My dad didn't know that. I didn't either. I'm new here." Very wary and defensive. Would bolt or attack at the slightest provocation. Well, well, what to do? What do you do with some clueless and alone kid dumb enough not to know his way home?
"New here, huh." The punk felt a slight wash of aggression fall over him. Well, aggression added on his usual aggression, aggression on aggression . . . whatever. It'd been a bad day. The mohawked-one had beaten him at checkers, he'd accidentally (really!) leveled the guy's locker room in a fit of pique, not that they could pin it on him, and then got into a fight with the be-specticled one, because he was sure the be-specticled one had stolen his gloves--he was always losing his gloves. Then the be-specticled one had beaten him and that was really pathetic, although it wasn't his fault, because the mohawked-one had walked into the middle of it to read his petition to the school board and had knocked the punk over. Then he'd had to serve detention with the be-specticled one, except the be-specticled one had gotten out early, because the bald one had faxed the principal-one that the be-specticled one was badly needed at home for an emergency (uh huh, yeah right)--not that the punk minded the be-specticled one bailing out, because it was really galling to watch the guy use detention to do homework, those severe eyebrows tilted down as if homework were actually important. So, yeah, it'd been a bad day and the punk wanted to cause a little damage. Just a little. Yeah, what he wanted right now was a little gratification. A little independant show of power. He was perfectly aware that this kid in front of him was weak, vulnerable, alone . . . there was no kind of glory in attacking him and he'd catch detention again if he was seen. Oh well. The punk put on his best evil smirk and clenched his fists. "You don't know me then." There, that sounded uber threatening. The kid jerked, staring at him warily. He got partially to his feet.
"What are you talking about? If you're trying to scare me, I can think of better things for you to do. I don't scare easy, and I'm not as helpless as I look." The kid moved one hand in a concentric circle, as if feeling for a weapon. Blades of grass are pretty scary, you know.
"I'm not trying to scare you." The punk took a step forward. "I don't want to scare you. I'm much more interested in hurting you. Don't ask me why. I can't tell you why. Save you're right here, right now and people like me don't need much more of a reason." Dude! That rocked!
"Right . . . " The kid took a couple of rapid steps backward, starting more upright. "I'm so glad you're being honest about it. Now, how about you just leave me alone and I can tell everyone you pounded me. Even self inflict a few bruises. You're not . . . a total sadist, are you?" His voice was cracking a little . . .
"Sadist? Maybe, maybe. I don't care." The punk lunged. His right fist caught the kid just under the jaw . . . or should have. At the last moment, he shifted his weight . . . and the punk's knuckles only caught him glancing on the lip . . . but not glancing enough to avoid reopening a large cut. He had blood on his fist.
The dark eyes flashed at him with a ferocity that was almost frightening. "All right . . . all right." The voice was cracking again. The punk lowered himself into a crouch. The kid might actually fight back. So, he dropped rapidly, lashing out with his feet in a ground hugging arch. The kid jumped backward, but not quite fast enough. The punk's boots caught him just under the knee. That did it. The punk was up in an instant, catching a flailing foot and yanking hard. Another grunt. He threw the leg down, hovering over the kid. Kid's face was taut with pain and defiance. He'll get up again in a moment . . . gotta . . . . The punk leaned back on one knee and leapt into the air, angling himself to deliver a crippling kick to the abdomen.
At that moment, the kid's hands flew up and together . . . and the punk felt a jolt slam through his body. His descent halted inches from his target, who glared up at him with a sort of grim surprise.
Oh . . . another blasted mutant.
The punk couldn't move . . . even thought was sluggish. He watched immobile as the kid slipped out from under him and staggered to his feet. The black irises were slowly growing, overtaking the whites of the eyes. He raised his hands over his head, expression set in intent, almost confused concentration . . . and then he brought his hands down in a balled, communial fist. The punk fell, landing badly on one leg. He winced, then glared at the kid standing practically over him."Whoa . . . hate to sound like Erkel, but . . . no, wait. That's not a good line. Um . . . can we use our names now, or is it early?"
The punk snorted, and cleared his throat, "You can introduce yourself and we can stop referring to
you as 'the kid,' but even though my identity is as obvious as a falling porchlight, I have to remain anonymous for a while--can we get on with it?""Okay, okay. Um . . . what tone should I use? Dramatic? I could lower my voice, maybe."
"Do it in falsetto."
"I'm not going to do it in falsetto! Normal voice then . . . uh, strained with hurt because . . . right, you just practically killed my leg. Uh . . . "
"Just say your name, man!"
"I'm supposed to make up a code name, too. That's kinda geeky. I mean, Mys--"
"No names yet, remember!"
"Drat. Uh . . . okay. Let's try this again."
. . . . The punk fell, landing badly on one leg. He winced, then glared at the kid standing practically over him.
"By the way . . . my name's Rafael . . . but you can call me . . . actually, what do you suggest?"
The punk slapped his forehead.
"Dramatic, huh? That's not dramatic! You're an Original Character--you have to have more style than that or no one will pay attention to you. 'What do you suggest?' Come on!"
"Well, I had one in mind, but it's obscure. All the good ones are taken!"
"Use the obscure one, then! We're losing reader interest with every aside!"
. . . . but you can call me Krait."
"Okay, what the heck is that?"
"It's a snake. It's really cool, actually. See, it's this drab color and . . . "
"Never mind!"
Then he turned . . . and began a limping run. He had gone almost half a block before the punk started after him.