A/N: Welcome to Hero, a fanfic challenge introduced by the LJ community 30kisses. This collection, the story of Deeba and Hemi of Un Lun Dun by China Mieville told in disjointed bits and pieces, follows the challenge set-surprise-"Hero," or Beta. (The chapter titles are each prompt.) This first piece basically embodies the "what would happen if they failed?" aspect of the book, and it's a little darker than China Mieville's masterpiece. Please enjoy! (:
Disclaimer (and the only one that will be present): I don't, nor will I ever, own Un Lun Dun or its characters.
Epidemic
It was more like a disease than a creature, she supposed.
Back to back, they stared down the smoglodytes, smombies, and stink-junkies with desperation in their eyes. Everywhere there was the thick black clot that was the Smog, and it roiled and thickened and it seemed to be laughing at them.
It was, Deeba knew. It was laughing as everything it touched was turned black and ugly with its disease; with the muck and chemicals and horrible tar that made up the Smog itself. It didn't create things, it corrupted them.
Infected. UnLondon was infected-sodden with the hungry black mass, a wisp of pitchy cloud wrapped softly around the darkness in everyone's hearts. There was darkness in her heart and there was darkness in Hemi's, and she knew beyond anything else that it was that darkness that would bring them down.
It would crawl in through their nostrils, ears, mouths; seep its way into their skin; cloud their lungs and fill their organs, their veins, and smother them in the inky dark smoke and never let them go. It would do to them what it had done to so many others already, and it would laugh while it was doing it.
That was what the Smog did.
She coughed. "It's ironic," she gasped to him, her long dark hair sticking to her round face.
He hesitated, then reached back to clutch at her hand. "No," he said quietly, hoarsely, his eyes never leaving the approaching masses, a metal baseball bat loose in his grip. "It's not ironic."
Right. Because I'm not the Shwazzy. Deeba held her breath and squeezed his hand. She clutched the useless, broken UnGun like a club.
It wouldn't be long before the Smog infected that, too. The final surge of dominance, proving that even the UnGun would be defeated in its presence.
"Are you ready?" he whispered.
"I wouldn't want to go any other way."
He nodded. Let go of her hand; she physically ached with emptiness. He raised his bat and she, the solid weight of the UnGun, pressing a quiet kiss to the cool barrel of what had once been the weapon to save them all.
Well, I'm not the Shwazzy, she thought bitterly. But even the funny sidekick can die a hero.