whizbangs | ic contact

That you've gotta see the doctor before you can go to the beach.

[his chest and throat unclench]

[of course, the rest of him tenses up in anger]

what the fuck says fucking who !

Says me, I'm not carting you around everywhere if you're gonna drop dead on my upholstery
So did you?

why the fuck would i drop dead its just a stupid eye !

I dunno, infection.
It's not a tricky question you know, either you did or you didnt

i did

You sure

why the fuck wouldnt i be sure its my fucking face can we just go already !

[she figures she probably isn't going to get much more from him, so she'll just have to take him on faith]

[not the easiest thing]

Ok, chill out kid
Wait out the front for me

[she bought it???]

[shit, she bought it]

ok

[carol rocks up about five minutes later, the top down on the shiny new convertible that she's not gonna lie, she kind of loves. pretty things that go fast. her interests are not that complex.

since she can't change her hair or her outfit on a whim anymore, her dumb blonde fauxhawk-or-whatever (hairdressers in new york just call it the "captain marvel" at this point) has been growing out; it's too short to tie up, too long to look anything but shitty. it creeped her out what a precise fit the two-piece swimsuit in her closet was, so she threw it under her bed somewhere and is instead wearing some navy shirt she found and a pair of denim shorts. suck on that, landlord.

there's a bag of stuff on the passenger seat. she throws it in the back after she pulls up onto the curb.]

Get in, small fry.

...Cool car.

[actually, everything about meeting Carol is weirdly, absurdly, unexpectedly cool; he'd seen her over the network, sure, but first she'd been yelling at him and then they'd both been distracted, talking about their situation]

[she doesn't look like an off-duty cop, with that cool blonde hair and those cool shorts and that awesome car; she looks like a rock'n'roll star from the TV]

[he doesn't even remember to bristle at 'small fry,' jumping into the car without further hesitation, maybe even a little urgency (please please don't figure it out before I get there)]

[slam, he shuts the door, stuffing his towel wherever the hell]

[she eyes the kid as he gets in, making a note of how much scrawnier he looks in person, how much more scraped-up and breakable, with those bandages all over him. whether or not he'd been outright lying to her about the doctor, at least somebody's wrapped him up properly and the linen looks reasonably clean.]

Seatbelt.

[he'll see why in a minute. she pulls out easy, the front tire bumping down gently onto the asphalt, but as soon as she's got a clear stretch of road -- she flies.

it's not like she's seen any speed limit signs around the place, and carol is not gonna let a car like this go to waste. anyhow it's perfectly safe, just fast enough to be exhilarating; she knows what the hell she's doing behind a wheel.

she grins big as spikes of her hair whip up at her face.]

Still cool?

Haaah -- !

[a similarly big grin splits Badou's face (probably the first one that, since his arrival, was not somehow mean-spirited)]

[they never had a car; they were always too expensive, the City always too cluttered with car pollution. not to mention, if you didn't have a car, it couldn't get stolen, or impounded, or ID'ed as you were fleeing the scene of the crime]

[that doesn't mean he hadn't looked, though, and wondered what it would be like]

No! It'd be cooler if you went faster!

[now, he knows]

[the kid looks more like a kid now than carol's seen so far, and something in her chest tugs. her family was not the greatest (she thinks objectively; she can't feel anything about them anymore) but at least she grew up safe. he doesn't get to have that.

she shrugs lightly.]

Remember, you asked for it.

[of course, this is not exactly safe for him either, but she does it anyway: the engine revs sharply and they pick up speed, the houses alongside them whipping past, pleasantly pastel-coloured blurs.

another car passes theirs in the street and the horn blares, long and irate. carol throws up a hand in a carefree wave as they zoom on by.

maybe she can't fly anymore, but there's still this.]

[he's too young to be a real adrenaline junkie, a suicide punk, living a "hardboiled" life, like some people (blow it all on one big party, bad boy); but where living is rough, so are the joys (and Badou is growing up with a spark inside him that wants to light fires)]

[he barks a laugh at the stupid honking car even as he throws out a hand for purchase on the dash (doesn't even notice when that hand fails the task, nerves not sparking in kind, like he is)]

[orange hair whips around from the wind and a craning neck; even with only one eye, he wants to look at everything from this fastfreenew perspective (so like the old but so different, too)]

[every so often, though, he makes sure to look forward instead of backwards or sideways; he'll watch that dark blue rise up, like it always did in his imagination]

[there's nothing more that really needs saying in the face of this kind of speed and freedom, so carol doesn't say it. just drives, and every now and then she'll look at badou, or close her eyes and smile -- not for more than a second, she's not about to get them killed, but she'll let them flicker closed and just breathe.

she's felt so stifled up til now, suffocated by the enormity of what's happened to her. but this has always been the thing that makes all that go to pieces and blow away in the wind.

speaking of the wind, her cheeks are flushed pink from it when she finally slows down, where the road tapers out into a ridge of bright green grass and trees with the ocean visible beyond. they roll up onto the grassy shoulder and she kills the engine, leaning back into her seat with a whump.]

Make sure you've got everything, kiddo.

[she grins at him and gets out, leaning into the back seat to retrieve the sports bag from where it's haphazardly fallen.]

[before Carol can even sit back up with her bag, the reverberation of the car door slamming closed rocks through the car, and the passenger side is empty -- aside from Badou's towel, which he (naturally, not being the type to heed his elders) left behind]

[the boy hesitates for just a moment at the edge of those trees; they grew them from chemicals and science and shipped them out in bulk, back in the City, but never so many, never so close together -- for all that Badou is a wild boy, he's never been a Boy in the Wild]

[maybe he should be, but he's not fearful of it; he dashes in, shoelaces whipping]

[if the car had a roof, she would've smacked her head on it. as it is, she jumps when the bang of the door sounds like a shot.]

Hey, watch the car--

[her precious new car, her baby, she loves the thing so much she's thinking about giving it a name, for god's sake.

badou's off into the wild blue yonder but carol stays a second, slinging the bag over a shoulder to check on the passenger door. it opens and closes just as smooth as ever. no marks on it. the kid is lucky.

when she deigns to follow him into the trees, it's with his forgotten towel draped over her other shoulder and a feeling of great sympathy for the noble pack mule.

she's lost sight of him in the delay.]

Hey! Kid! We don't run off, okay!

['we' might not, but Badou does; it's in his blood, to be running towards (and usually away) from something, and he won't ever stop for anything, not until his lungs burn and his legs ache (never take up smoking, bad boy, he'd always wheeze)]

[he's barely visible through the underbrush, the shadows from the setting sun blending his own away]

[but when he comes over the crest of it, when he finally sees what he's been looking for, unobstructed, he stops]

[it's easily one of the most terrifying things he's ever seen; great expanses of nothing, of space where scum haven't carved themselves into shitty little holes and shitty little lives with other shitty little people]

[but his joys are rough; he runs toward it, across the sand, wanting to hear what nothing sounds like, up close]

[she catches up with him at the edge, where the sand starts to eat away at the green of the brush and the thick lines of tree roots have all petered out. he's a thin silhouette against the rippling blue at the horizon, maybe ten feet away from her and frozen in place, and she doesn't draw any closer than that out of a strange sudden fear that he'll spook.

and then it almost seems like he does -- but no, he's just running for running's sake, because there's nothing around to scare him off that carol can see. except the ocean, maybe.

she slips off her sneakers before she hits the sand and carries them hooked on her fingers, calling after him--]

Take your shoes off, you'll get sand in them! And be careful near the water, I'll be in deep shit if you drown!

[--as she follows behind him at a brisk walk. the sand is cool and soft and slippery underfoot, the occasional stone or remnant of something's shell spiking her so that she has to lift up her foot and brush it off. as the sand gets slicker from the water, she can pick out the occasional tiny crab hole, although she knows she probably won't notice the crabs unless they move.]

[sneakers are vital; as far as Badou is concerned, they are the difference between being able to run away and ending up in somebody's dumpster. he's always heard that gangsters -- not the chumps in his neighborhood, but the ones that made headlines and constantly outwitted the cops -- always made you take off your shoes before you died (well, before they killed you). Badou has fought tooth and nail (tooth and Nails) to keep a hold of his, and in a sense that smells vaguely like mouldy shoes, they're a part of him as much as the thickening scar across his hand]

[but there's no one here to hurt, there's no one here to kill, there's no one for miles and he knows that because he can see everything; until this moment, he's thought 'vantage point' was a place snipers went before picking off victims (duck, duck, splat)]

[so he does kick his shoes off and it doesn't take much effort; the grime-and-blood spattered red converse knock-offs are falling apart at the seams, a stiff sea breeze could have taken them away (and maybe that pointlessness of holding them so dear says something about Badou). he leaves them behind (they're already full of sand, Carol) and digs those angular, awkward boys' feet into the grains like shitty plastic shovels until he comes to the water's edge]

[when he drops to his haunches there, he's out of breath, which is unlike him, and he can feel his pulse throbbing uncomfortably in the place he used to have a right eye (street fatigue and infection have made a gambit out of his vitality, but he'll recover -- Nails men only ever went violently). the salty air burns and bites his cuts this close, and the push and movement of the water before him feels like a pressure of sorts -- not a bad one, like city smog or bookie debts, but something huge and important; like how the bearing stone of a building must feel]

[his voice may or may not carry]

Where the hell does it stop...?

[he's never see anything that didn't end]

Edited 2013-07-11 19:14 (UTC)

[one look at the discarded shoes, the layer of filth coating them, and carol knows there's no way in hell she's picking those up to carry around with her. instead she dumps the bag down next to them, badou's towel and her own shoes placed carefully on top of it to save them from the sand as much as possible. far as the line of sand and salt-water stretches in either direction, there's no one else in sight, so she's not worried about anything getting stolen.

the boy seems busy communing with the sea, or whatever it is a kid does when they've never seen the edge of the world before. it must feel like -- carol can't even imagine.

she takes her time ambling over to him, the wet sand shucking every time she picks up her feet. when she gets there she stops, about a foot from him, feet in the water and letting it rise and fall past her ankles, bringing sand and salt and sea shit in and out, over and over. the feeling is kind of like being a kid again herself.]

You know there's more ocean in the world than there is land?

[kid like this, she figures he might not. if he's even from the same world as her.]

Re: text

Re: text

Re: text

Re: text

Re: text

Re: text

Re: text

Re: text

Re: text

Re: text

action u buttfaced punk

Re: action u buttfaced punk

action

Re: action

Re: action

Re: action

Re: action

Re: action

Re: action

Re: action

Re: action

Re: action

Re: action

Re: action

Re: action