When You're Good to Audrey II…
Author's Note: This is a new fic, of course, and my first - that is to say, I'm entirely new to this genre of writing and I hope it passes the ''test''. Reviews are always appreciated!
BRIF SYNOPSIS (SPOILERS!): This is a Little Shop/Chicago crossover; Roxie Hart's point of view. After being starstruck partner in crime with Seymour Krelborn, Roxie is locked up in jail for unleashing a carnivorous plant on mankind. Planet Earth is evacuated to an oxygen-less planet nearby named Schkidrowgo. Citicenz breathe through Wireless OxyShare (Woxy), tubes inserted in nostrils to exude clean oxygen. No sound cand be heard, however, and citizens are forced to communicate through writing and texting only.
To make myself clear: this is a very sci-fi type story, that is to say, please do not say things like, ''Really? They breathe through tubes that give oxygen? And where exactly does this free unlimited oxygen come from?'' Because this story is not about accuracy, it's about imagination!
Disclaimer: I own neither Chicago nor Little Shop of Horrors.
1.
I come to around seven. Sprawled on my stomach on the cold, hard ground of my prison cell, I look around. A sink with a leaky faucet; I suppose it must be rhythmically clinking, but I don't hear a sound. A wooden bed with no mattress and a small grey wool blanket; the floor is more inviting to me. A metal door with a small barred window and a fat metal lock, dangling open - there's nowhere to go anyways. My God, everything is cold in here.
I play around with the little cross around my neck, thinking about how I got here, singing rather loudly. No sound comes out of my mouth, but I can hear myself in my head. It's been about a month since I last heard anything.
I'm not deaf or anything. I'm just living, like everyone else on this planet, off Wireless OxyShare.
Ahh, Woxy. You rescued us from death to deliver us to worse. The only music I hear is inside my head now. I'm homeless, jobless, and locked up in prison, sentenced to death about a month from now.
Why is the entire portion of cooperative and hopeful human beings living on an oxygen-less planet called Schkidrowgo? Why am I in prison? The answers to those two fateful questions go hand in hand.
Seymour, darling... You know what happened. You were what happened. You fed all those people to that horrible plant to get my attention. All that inhumanity for my love. It was terrible what you did, Seymour, but you still have my undivided affection.
"He only knows half the story," says a little part of me. It's true; Seymour was only there to see a part of the story. He died shortly after, in my arms, in the back of the last police shuttle. Judged an unnecessary weight to the vessel, the cops chose to dump him in the cold emptiness of space.
But between his injury and his death, he was unconscious for three or so hours. He wasn't there, for example, during the emergency evacuation order. He wasn't there when humankind was separated until an unforeseeable reunion that could very well never happen at all. No… Seymour was not there for the most important part of the story.
I think it's about time I make myself clear about certain things.
Post-Scriptum: Please review, again, and I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Chapter 2 will be out in a few minutes, I realize it's not much to on from.