Under an Alien Sky

re: The Severed Earth missing

2008-01-16T00:19:38Z

The previously posted chapters of The Severed Earth have been removed. As the story gets closer & closer to actual potential publication, it cannot be posted anywhere public, not even for critique and comments. If you want a copy of the fanfic, please email me via the Holy Shrine of Journey.

Payback

2007-02-18T19:59:49Z

This is a continuation of Dragon's Blood, a tale that's been posted in fragment on the Holy Shrine of Journey for a while now. I've known the generalities of the story, but not the specifics, and it's now looking as if it's deeply intertwined with the tale started in the last post.

Before anyone tries to get on my case about my presentation of the protesters OR the preacher in that tale, go here, read, and weep.

-----------------------
Even stopped at the light down the block, Steve could see the small crowd outside the studio building; they were hard to miss, with all the signs they were waving. With his windows down, he could hear shouting and chanting, though not the actual words.

“Great,” he muttered. “What now?”

Sid peeped up, over the dashboard, cocked her head. “Trouble?”

Steve only sighed. “Who knows, anymore. Probably a bunch of assholes upset because Neal’s wearing leather.”

“Invisible,” Sid said, sounding resigned.

He had to smile at that. “Only until we’re inside,” he said. “I just don’t want them coming after me.”

Sid butted her head against his free hand; he scratched right behind her head, the “good spot”, his smile breaking into a full grin as she rrrr’d and turned belly-up in the patch of warm sun on the seat.

He ignored the sign-wavers as he turned into the studio parking lot, staring straight ahead with the practiced I-don’t-see-you gaze of an experienced city-dweller. It was only when he got out of the car and glanced casually at the protesters --

-- oh my god.

He stood there, staring in disbelief, even as Sid clambered up his arm and settled into her usual spot along his shoulders. But then he felt her jerk up, and her claws dug in, lightly, with the bare beginnings of a growl.

The signs were religious slogans and religious symbols, with Journey’s name plastered prominently on them, right along with words such as “Satan”, “666”, and “devil’s work”. He could hear the chanting clearly now, prayers, exhortations, preaching.

“Oh hell no,” Steve said.

“Not-food,” Sid growled, very softly, just as the protesters spotted Steve, and the shouting and exhortations and prayers increased in volume.

“Sir?”

Steve startled, found himself staring into a police officer’s unamused face.

“Um...I’m recording here,” Steve said.

The man’s face remained stony, though the corner of his mouth quirked. “You’d better get inside.”

He wasn’t about to argue, not with the volume increasing by the moment. Steve turned, kept his gaze fixed away from the sight, walked calmly and un-rushed into the building, as if he didn’t care at all, as if the protesters weren’t worth his time.

“Scared,” Sid said quietly, in his ear.

“No,” Steve murmured back. “Just...just tired. It’s so fuckin’ stupid.”

“Not Glass,” Sid said, just as quietly. “Sid. Sid scared.”

That unsettled him. But he was in the reception area, and the receptionist was glaring at him as he passed, as if Steve, personally, were the cause of the idiocy out front. Steve bit back a sigh, glad that Sid was invisible; it looked as if the woman’s day had been bad enough. He pushed through the hall door without a word, and down the corridor and through the studio door, only to hear the talk cut off suddenly into silence as he stepped into the main room.

His bandmates were staring at him, or rather, at Sid perched on his shoulder.

“Tell me,” Jonathan said, “please tell me Sid was invisible when you got here.”

“Sid not stupid,” Sid said, before Steve could say anything. “Glass said, invisible until in. Sid learn. Sid understand.” She jumped from Steve’s shoulder to the floor, scampering up to head-butt each of the others and getting her usual head-scratches in return.

Jonathan sighed.

“Should I ask?” Steve said.

He saw the glance go around the group. Finally Smitty straightened from his crouch by the drums, scooped up a small book from the floor, and tossed it to Steve, who caught it one-handed. “Look at that.”

The cover was garish, red flames, black background, an burning guitar dripping blood: “The Devil’s Sacrifice: Sin and Satan Kill Our Youth Through Rock & Roll”. Steve sighed, thumbed it without much interest. It looked like the usual rants, no different from the hundred or so other tracts that the band had received in the past couple years. He and Neal had always used them to roll reefers. “Another one. Nice.”

“Check out the back,” Smitty said.

Steve flipped it over...and collapsed back against the wall. “No. Hell no.”

“Good choice of words,” Smitty said dryly.

The grim face of the author glared up at him -- a face that had recently accosted him in a cemetary and hunted him down to a McDonald’s. Steve stared at the cover, rubbing at his forehead again. He could feel the headache starting already, and it wasn’t even noon.

“Brother Jed Dobbs,” Ross drawled, “leader and preacher of the biggest movement in the city, not counting what the winos leave on the streets.”

“It’s not funny, Ross,” Jonathan said.

“Hell it is,” Ross said. “I fully plan to enjoy my role as corrupter of virgins and eater of goats.”

Neal snorted. “You would.”

“Page 154, Steve,” Smitty said quietly.

“You read this shit?” Steve said.

Smitty shrugged. “You have to know the enemy.”

Steve thumbed through the pages, hit 154, and froze, suddenly unable to breathe. A list of “rock stars most in need of saving”.

His name topped the list.

Neal had come over, eyed the page. “Woah. You been doing shit, and you didn’t invite me?”

“And he beat out Ozzy, Rob Zombie, and GWAR,” Ross said. “Perry, you rock.”

“Guys,” Jonathan said.

“Aw, come on, Jay,” Neal said, grinning. “No one takes these asses seriously.”

Smitty calmly snagged the book back, and began reading, in a quiet voice. “...and in that moment, I caught this man on holy ground, in the cemetary among the blessed dead lying in the bosom of Jesus, and he had a demon on his shoulder, hissing its demonic evil into his ear, urging him into profaning the sacred dead for its evil sacrifices, yet it ran when I confronted it with the power of the Holy Cross and the truth of the Holy Blood...”

“Fuck,” Steve said, just as quietly.

Silence settled.

“He saw Sid,” Jonathan said, to Steve. It wasn’t a question.

“Last month,” Steve said. Keeping it as short as possible, he told them what had happened, the man following him to McDonalds, what he did, what Smitty had done.

“Paybacks are hell,” Ross said finally.

“Ross,” Steve said.

“You worry too much,” Ross said. “That’s you, man. You thrive on drama in your life, and you know it. So they rant for a bit, they buy a big stack of our albums, hold a record burning or two, and we get all the publicity and the profits. Big deal.”

“You did see that crowd out there, right?” Steve said.

“Yeah,” Ross said. “And I also saw that they were very carefully keeping to the sidewalk and out of the way of the nice policemen who are guarding our Satanic Majesties. They’re idiots, but they’re not stupid. They’re not going to get their lily-white asses in trouble.”

“Which means they’re smart idiots,” Smitty said quietly. “That scares me.”

Ross turned to Neal. “Are we the only ones being realistic here, or what?”

Return (a snippet)

2007-01-30T04:02:25Z

This is a start to an intended sequel to The Bassist, The Drummer, The Dragon & The Faery Brigade of Doom. There's quite a bit more to it, and I apologize in advance for the obvious Mary Sue -- though not for the shout-out to John Kovalic's Dork Tower. :D And yes, D&D game sessions can be very much like this in real life, right down to the Goth witchy wannabes.

--------------

"You took her where?!?"

Ross winced and held the phone a few inches...then a foot...then arm's length...away from his ear. Even at that distance, Perry was loud. Loud enough for everyone at the table in the next room to stop their dice-rolling and munching and cheerful rules-lawyer-squabbling to crane their necks to stare at him.

I'm going to catch the flu and go cough on the man, I swear.

Kris caught his eye; Ross grimaced, and she turned away. He couldn't make out her words, but the tone was unmistakable, a game master firmly taking control back of the game or else.

Perry was still ranting, and Ross waited until there was a pause -- even rock singers had to breathe at some point -- and then Ross spoke firmly, angrily, into the phone, his gaze on the table of assorted gamers and fantasy freaks.

"You want to yell at me," Ross said, "you come over here and do it to my face. With Sid."

Then he hung up, turned the phone ringer off and the answering machine on and set its volume to nonexistent.

No one was looking at him when he rejoined the game. Everyone was very obviously not looking at him. And suddenly, Ross was glad his wife always found other things to do on game-day.

Everyone, that is, except for Kris, who'd raised an eyebrow. "Do we need to clear out?"

"Nah," Ross said. "Rock and roll temper tantrum. He won't show."

"Ah," Kris said, and the or-else tone came back into her voice, as everyone was suddenly busy again with dice and character sheets.

Almost everyone, anyway. Sheila was off on one of her tangents, again. She was a skinny Goth wannabe, white makeup, black eyeliner, dressed all in black and wearing enough pewter pentagrams to drag her head forward several inches. She was arguing -- yet again -- that the magic in the game was"not how it works in real life".

Not that she knows how it works in real life, either. Ross kept his gaze focused on his coffee, not wanting to get drawn in. Kris was doing well enough on her own in keeping Sheila off-balance. But Kris caught Ross's gaze and rolled her own eyes ceiling-ward, and Ross grinned. The argument had been old when Sheila started it, and Kris didn't exactly have a lot of patience.

"Look," Kris was saying, "you don't like the magic system, fine. Make up another one. We'll try it."

"That's not the point!" Sheila's voice was breathy, as if she was trying to be mystical and profound.

Trying.

"It is the point," Kris said. "This is a game. If you want reality, take those," she jerked her thumb at the swords lying on the table, Ren Faire souvenirs that everyone had brought to show off, "and these guys can hack you to bits, while you cast a spell to stop them."

"Awright!" That was from Igor, a short, balding, nearsighted Scotsman. At least, he wore a kilt to the game sessions.

"Like any of us're gonna take you on," another of the group, Matt, said.

"But that's not how it works," Sheila said, ignoring the exchange.

"Then it's useless for gaming," Kris snapped. "At least, for this game. And this is the game I'm running right now."

Sheila sank back into her chair, her face twisted in a sulky pout.

"And for that," Kris said, "you just failed your spot check. Everyone roll for surprise, minus ten to the roll."

Everyone groaned, everyone grumbled, but Ross couldn't help another grin. His pixie character was well-hidden in the trees, scouting for the group.

"A huge ball of flame explodes overhead," Kris went on, ruthlessly, "showering everyone with fire and igniting the trees. Roll to dodge, Ross. No, Shel, you're surprised, you can't get a spell off."

Uh-oh.

He barely made the dodge, then the next spot roll.

"A dragon," said Igor, before Kris said anything. "Figures."

Kris narrowed her eyes, then gave Igor an evil grin. "Okay. Sure. It's a dragon. Big, glossy, black --"

"Deep shit," said Matt.

"-- and roaring at the top of her lungs --"

"Her?" Ross said.

That earned him a glare. "It's up there," Kris said, pointing to the ceiling. "And you're down here, Mr. Faery. It's mad as hell, and you're surrounded by burning leaves. You want to argue dragon biology right now?"

"Her," Ross said. "Okay. Fine by me. What's she roaring about?"

"Who the fuck cares?" Igor said. "Arrows of Smiting coming online, Kris."

"Jesus," Matt said, "it's a black dragon, idiot --"

"You speak dragon?" Kris said to Ross.

"Yeah," Ross said.

Kris's stare was flat, though a corner of her mouth twitched.

Go on. Call my bluff.

"Okay," Kris said. "It's loud, it's booming, so it's hard to make it out exactly. But something like, 'return my child now, humans, or all your kind shall be ash'."

"Aw, no fair," Igor said. "I wanna smite dragon ass!"

"I'm casting a nice calming field of blue surrounding the poor thing," Sheila said.

"Calming fields of blue aren't in the rulebook," Kris snapped. "Ross?"

His little pixie versus a big mad dragon. Ross grinned again. "I'll fly up to parley, calling out 'we help! we help!'"

The twitch at the corner of Kris's mouth broke into laughter. "You're what?"

"With purple wings a-fluttering and hands open wide to show I'm not armed," Ross said.

A loud, real, booming cut them off and made them all jump, before Ross realized someone was pounding on his front door. It stopped, then repeated, louder, more insistent, until Ross sighed and got up to a chorus of groans to pull open his front door.

He froze, the door part way open. Steve stood on the doorstep, and the singer did not look happy.

"All right," Steve snapped, pushing past Ross. "I'm here. With Sid. We are going to talk about this Faire bullshit and you are going to give me some fuckin' answers --"

Then Steve stopped, as it apparently registered that Ross had a roomful of people, one of whom -- Igor -- had risen from the sofa, sword in hand. But as Ross stood there, debating whether to go ahead and let the short fat guy in the kilt run Steve through or not, something else sunk in.

Oh...christ.

"Hawk!" Sid squealed, and leaped from Steve's shoulder, made it to the back of the armchair, and from there to the table, directly in front of Kris, scattering dice and figure miniatures everywhere.

Well, that got their attention.

Kris blinked, then grinned. "Hey, Sid. I was wondering where you were hiding."

Steve stood unmoving, his face open shock and horror. Ross eased past him, glanced at his face, and almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

"Ross," Igor said uncertainly; his gaze, just as the others, was fixed on Sid. "That's your puppet."

"Surprise," Ross said casually. "Folks, this is Sid. Short for Obsidian. Sid --"

"She's real, guys," Kris said quietly, to the table. "Chill out."

"She?" Ross said, surprised. "You can tell?"

Kris ignored that, her gaze back on Sid, curious, gentle. "How'd you know my name, kiddo?"

Ross stopped, mentally replaying conversation and what had happened at the Faire. There hadn't been time for introductions, that was for sure.

"Sid dream," Sid said earnestly. Her tail was lashing. "Sid see. Sid know. You Hawk."

Slowly, Kris nodded. "Yeah. That."

"Your name's 'Hawk'?" Steve said, in loud cut-the-crap tones.

That got everyone's attention focused back on the obnoxious intruder standing in their fellow gamer's entryway.

"Steve..." Ross clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder, intending to deflect him into an area without the shiny metal Ren Faire souvenirs and plastic dice missiles.

Steve didn't budge.

"Yeah," Kris said, glaring at the singer. "Kris Mountainhawk. Your point?"

"Mountainhawk," S teve said. "You don't look Native American."

"No," Kris said coldly, "I don't."

"Oooooo," Sheila said then, and Ross clamped his mouth on a groan; he'd been doing rock for too damn long not to recognize those tones. "It's him, Kris. That's Steve Perry."

"Yeah," Kris said. "I know who he is."

"Oh, do you?" Steve started.

"Sid," Ross cut in, over top of Steve, "you know Kris. That's Igor... Matt...Sheila..."

"Ravennightwind," Sheila said.

That brought simultaneous, muffled snorts from around the table.

"She's Mountainhawk," Sheila said defensively.

"Yeah," Igor said,"but Kris can blame her mom for that."

Sid was looking around the table, her head cocked, tail still lashing. "Joke?"

"Never mind," Ross said to her.

"Shame Godzilla ain't here," Matt said, his gaze on Sid. "He'd be going nuts right now."

Kris was still glaring at Steve, her arms crossed. Steve ignored her, crossing to the table to hold out an arm to Sid.

"Come on, Sid," Steve said. "We're going."

"No," Sid said."Sid stay. Thump's friends good. Sid learn."

"Sid," Steve said patiently, "we are going. Now."

"You think she's your pet?" Kris said. Her tone had Ross stepping in front of Steve, fast.

"Perry," Ross said, "outside. Now."

"Like hell --"

Ross drew himself up to glare down at Steve. While he was taller than the singer, he didn't often push it, but sometimes, he had no choice. "Now."

Steve turned to stalk out the front door, leaving Sid on the table. Ross stood there a moment, eyes closed, trying to gather his calm, then opened his eyes to silence and a group of stares.

"Excuse me for a minute," Ross said to them, quietly.

"Ross," Kris said, as he started to turn. He turned back, and she snagged up one of the smaller Ren Faire souvenirs from the table, handed it to him, hilt-first. It had heft and solidity -- and an edge -- to it; Kris always insisted on the real carbon-forged blades at the Faires, not the stainless-steel tourist crap.

Gently, respectfully, Ross laid the dagger back down on the table. "No, thanks," he said, with a slight smile. "I'm good." The smile broke into a grin. "Show Sid the game."

"Game?" Sid said.

Ross turned away, gesturing at the others to carry on, and slipped out the front door as Sid's piping voice and his friends' eager explanations started up. Outside, Steve was leaning against his car, with his back to the house, but he twisted to glare as Ross came up.

"Before you start," Ross said, as Steve opened his mouth, "yes, I said to say it to my face. But only an idiot would've seen the cars in my driveway and not known that maybe, just maybe, I had other people over here. And only an idiot would've come storming in anyway to chew me out."

Steve only glared from underneath his hair. "Sid --"

"And as for Sid being visible," Ross said, "that was her choice. You take it up with her. I'll be happy to loan you a tourniquet for that fight."

Steve said nothing, only turned to stare out over the street, his mouth tight, his arms crossed. Ross settled into a lean next to him, waited.

"You took her to Ren Faire," Steve said, his gaze fixed on a point across the street.

"Yeah," Ross said, "I did."

Now Steve turned, his face open disbelief and anger. "You don't see what's fuckin' wrong with that?"

"You weren't listening in there," Ross said calmly. "'Ross, that's your puppet.' They didn't know Sid was real. No one did."

"Don't give me that bullshit," Steve snapped. "I heard that Hawk bitch. She knew. You can't tell me--"

Ross throttled his anger down. "Hawk," he cut Steve off, "is my friend. You want to start shit, you do it to her face. I'll still loan you the bandages after."

Steve turned away, settled back into his furious glare into the distance. Abruptly, Ross had enough.

"You come up with something serious," Ross said, "come in and get me and we'll bitch it out here. Maybe you noticed, I got friends here. I don't have time for rock star tantrums." With that, he pushed away from the car and headed back inside before Steve could open his mouth.

That last had been a low blow, Ross knew. Perry hated the"rock star" label, and all the baggage that came with it.

And he's the first to act like one. Irony, thy name is Steve Perry.

Ross stepped back through the front door and into a cheerful, manic welter of voices. Sid had moved from the table to the back of the sofa, next to Igor, perched and upright and tail lashing, her eyes bright. Ross grinned; Igor was also the one who tended to hoard munchies. Currently, there was an open bag of Cheetos, a bowl filled with cheese cubes and summer sausage, and a bag of jalapeño chips balanced precariously on a scatter of books on the cushion next to Igor...which placed Sid directly above that tasty stash.

'Human-ignorant', my ass.

"Sid play, too?" Sid said plaintively, looking up at Ross.

Ross raised an eyebrow, but nodded at Kris. "Ask her. She's our gamemaster. It's her game."

"Story," Sid said. "Hawk explain. Game of stories. Sid good with stories. Hawk tell story and Sid play character in story. With you."

"Yeah, and this story does have a huge-ass dragon right above us at the moment," Matt muttered.

Ross sprawled into the other empty armchair, giving him a good view through the front window. Perry was still leaning against his car, his head turned away.

Sulking. Yeesh.

"No," Kris said thoughtfully. "The dragon's your adventure tonight. That stays with me."

"Besides," Ross added, "Sid would win."

"Yeah," Kris said.

"My point," Matt said.

Sid was eyeing the brightly colored Cheetos bag. Igor dipped his hand in, offered her a handful, watched as Sid delicately picked one up in her front talons and sniffed it over. Igor looked sheepishly at Ross. "Um...is this stuff safe for her?"

Ross grinned, as Sid crunched down in a spray of orange cheese dust, then snagged another from Igor's hand. "As safe as it is for us."

Kris snorted. "That really answers the question. Okay. Here's what we'll try --"

"You know, I am a wizard," Sheila broke in pointedly. "Sid could be my familiar for tonight."

Kris gave Sheila a don't-push-it look. "Dragons aren't on the allowed list. So, no."

"But --"

"What familiar?" Sid said.

"My special friend," Sheila said, before anyone else could say anything.

"Say all of it," Kris said, glaring at Sheila. "A familiar's a wizard's slave, Sid. It's an animal that boosts the wizard's power and does anything the wizard tells it to."

Sid cocked her head. Ross knew that look. Unfortunately, Sheila didn't.

"But my wizard's a dragon-wizard," Sheila said.

"Here we go again," Matt muttered.

"Sid not animal," Sid said, at the same time. "Sid not slave."

"That's a big no, Shel," Ross said.

"A big Hell no," Kris said.

Sheila sniffed. "I was just offering something that Sid would know how to do, Kris. No need to get bitchy about it."

"Something Sid would know how to do?" Kris echoed.

"It's obvious," Sheila said. "She's already his familiar --" She nodded with her chin towards the window. "Anyone can see he's a wizard. I just thought Sid'd be comfortable playing it."

Ross didn't move, was careful to stay casual and relaxed, as snorts and eye-rolls and laughter burst out from Matt and Igor.

"Get real, Shel," Matt said.

"Game," Igor said to Sheila, slowly enunciating it out. "G-A-M-E. Like, fiction. Fantasy. Jesus."

"Says the man who wears a kilt," Ross said.

"That," Igor said, with dignity, "is a fashion statement."

"He is!" Sheila said. "If you really did real magic --"

"Sword time," Igor said, picking up one of the metal souvenirs and eyeing Sheila. "You and me, darlin'. Out back, your magic and my sword."

Sheila sniffed again. "Just because you don't believe in it--"

But Kris was eyeing Sheila, though Ross thought he saw her gaze flicker towards him. "Yeah," Kris said."That jerk, a wizard. Right."

There was a tapping at the door, which opened, cutting everyone off. Steve came in, stood at the threshold of the living room. His expression looked calm enough, but Ross knew better.

"Sid," Steve said quietly, "come on. It's time to go."

Only someone who knew Sid would've caught the tightening of the claws and the stillness of the tail. Ross sighed; he probably should get the bandages now.

"Sid stay," Sid said.

"We're going home," Steve said patiently. "My dad's coming over for dinner. Come on."

"See?" Sheila said to the group in general. "I told you!"

"Sid not familiar," Sid said, and Steve looked confused. "Sid stay. Sid play with Thump."

"I can drive her home, Steve," Ross said. "She'll be okay here. That'll keep Marv from tossing a fit."

"That's not the point," Steve said.

Sid had settled on the sofa back, her front legs crossed, talons slightly extended, the tip of her tail twitching, her gaze boring into Steve. She didn't look as though she was moving any time soon.

Steve stood there, his own arms crossed, staring back at the little dragon. Ross didn't think Steve wasn't stupid enough to escalate the matter, not now, not in front of an audience. But still...

"It is the point," Kris said fiercely, her hand a little too near one of the Faire souvenirs. "She's not your familiar. She's not your pet. Who the hell are you to tell her what to do?"

Oh, fuck.

That broke the glaring contest between Steve and Sid, as Steve turned, outrage twisting his face. Ross shoved himself up from his chair.

"That," Ross said angrily to Kris, "was uncalled for."

Kris ignored that, her glare still fixed on Steve. "Seen Kajitani lately?" she said, still in that low, fierce voice."Or do you just fuck around with Mount Tam on your own?"

Whatever Ross had been expecting, it wasn't that. And from Steve's sudden, shocked-to-a-standstill stance, he hadn't either.

The room had gone dead silent. Igor and Matt were staring anywhere but at Steve or Kris; Sheila wasn't so polite. The Goth's eyes were fixed on Steve, and Ross felt his gut tighten at the awed look on her face.

God. Just what Perry didn't want.

There was movement, Sid uncoiling herself from her seat on the sofaback, then carefully, precisely, picking her way over to the table, past the miniatures and blades, to sit with tail coiled around herself, perched on the table edge and still glaring at Steve with those huge, glowing eyes.

"Sid adult," Sid said. "Not nestling. Not slave. Sid stay."

"And that," Kris said, to Steve, "ends that discussion."

That's it.

Ross slammed his hand down on the table, making everyone jump. "Enough," Ross said. "Game over. Everyone go home."

He didn't need to say it twice, though Kris transferred that glare to him for a moment, then silently started picking up her binders and books. Igor and Matt had already shoveled their stuff into their backpacks; they muttered halfhearted goodbyes, and slid through the door. Sheila, though, sidled up to Steve and handed him a scrap of notepaper, still staring at him with those wide, dark-makeup-drenched eyes.

"Call me if you need to talk, 'kay?" she said. "I understand these things. You can trust me."

"What?" Steve said.

Ross felt a headache starting. "Sheila..."

Sheila patted Steve on the shoulder before he could flinch away. "It's okay. I understand. We'll talk later." Then she was out the door with a knowing smile back at Steve.

"What was that all about?" Steve said, staring at the door.

"She thinks you're a wizard," Kris said, from the table. She'd brought twice as many books and papers as the others, and her bookbag showed it. She finished strapping it up, hefted it over her shoulder.

Steve scowled.

Kris ignored him. Almost as an afterthought, she scooped up the forged dagger from the table and slid it down along her leg as she headed to the door.

Ross blinked. He hadn't noticed before; she wore a sheath strapped to her leg. The knife slid home into it, and even knowing it was there, it was hard to spot.

"Hawk," Sid said, and as Kris turned, Sid leapt to the armchair, then to Kris's backpack, using her claws to grip and clamber over the pack and onto Kris's shoulder, then Kris's arm. The little dragon perched there, head cocked, staring into Kris's face.

Silence; Kris's own head was cocked as she returned that intent gaze. Finally, Kris nodded. "Okay," she said quietly, to Sid. "But if you want out, you let Ross know. He knows where to find me."

"Um, right," Ross said, uncertain.

Kris held her arm out, waited for Sid to leap back to the armchair. "I'll talk to you later, Ross," Kris said casually, as if nothing had happened.

Ross decided he was not going to ask. Life had been interesting enough so far. "Sure," he said, as she headed out the door.

There was a long, long silence. Sid picked her way back to the abandoned pile of munchies that Igor had left behind. As if nothing had happened.

"What the fuck was that?" Steve said.

"Eh," Ross said, as he started to pick up the soda cans. "Don't worry about Shel. She's on a goth-witchy kick. Next week she'll be seeing dead people."

"Not her," Steve said.

Ross wasn't sure about Kris, either, at the moment. "That's just Kris. She's..." He paused, trying to think of the best way to put it.

"A bitch," Steve said.

"If she thinks you're pulling shit," Ross said.

Silence for a moment.

"Sid," Steve said, carefully, with exaggerated calm, "what happened with you and that chick?"

Sid was examining a piece of summer sausage, turning it in her talons and sniffing it. She didn't seem to hear.

"Sid," Steve said again.

"Private," Sid said, her attention still on the sausage. "Not Glass concern."

Silence again. Steve bit his lip, then eased around the table to sit on the chair near Sid. "Look," he said, "you don't know humans."

At that, Sid raised her head, fixed those glowing eyes on Steve.

"Humans hurt what they don't understand," Steve said, and there was an odd note in his voice. "And they won't understand you. I don't want to see you hurt."

"Thump not hurt," Sid said. "Not Scream, not Shaper, not Gift. All human met so far, no hurt." Something in those eyes sharpened. "Except Glass."

"You've been lucky," Steve said. "And you didn't know the people here when you jumped at them. I saw the swords they had. They could've really hurt you."

"Bullshit," Ross said.

Steve raised his head to give Ross a look. Ross crossed his arms, eyeballed Steve right back.

Sid harumphed. "Know Hawk. Hawk fought flitters. Fought with Thump and Shaper."

Steve's look turned into a full-on glare. "Smith was in on it, too?"

"Sid," Ross said, "you told him about the flitters, right?"

"Told," Sid said. "Glass not listen. Again."

"Sid," Steve said, and the edge was back in his tone.

"Glass never listen," Sid said. "Sid say, Sid adult, and Glass treat as nestling. Sid say, Sid know, and Glass say not know. Sid adult. Sid know risk. Sid," she uncurled her talons briefly,"handle if judge wrong."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Steve muttered.

"Maybe you're too afraid of it," Ross said.

Silence.

"Fine," Steve snapped. "You deal with it. And her. You wanna be adult," he was glaring at Sid, "be adult. Stay on your fuckin' own and see how far you get." He stalked towards the door and left, slamming the door behind him.

Ah, fuckin' hell.

For a long, long moment, Ross didn't move. Sid's gaze was fixed on the door, her tail still except for a small twitch at the tip.

Finally Ross sighed, and saw her startle, then stare up at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

"C'mon," Ross said to her quietly, holding out his arm. "You can take over the spare bedroom for tonight."

my first Neal/Steve. Blame Barb.

2006-06-30T22:40:04Z

Just to prove SOMEONE wrong, SOMEONE who claimed she could pwn me when it came to Neal/Steve.

My very first slash drabble, based on this image from Sarah.
------------------------

Before Steve could move away, Neal had hooked his finger through the metal loop and pulled, hard. Steve stumbled, caught himself on the stack of crates to glare up at Neal.

"You wear the most fuckin' stupid shit," Neal said. "A dog collar?"

"Judas Priest wears 'em," Steve snapped.

"We," Neal said, "ain't Judas Priest. You wearing leather boy gear just --"

"Just what?"

His finger still hooked through the metal hoop, Neal snorted & turned away, pulling Steve
after him. Steve resisted, pulled back, dragging Neal to a halt.

"Cut it out."

"So take the fuckin' collar off," Neal said.

Steve only stood there, arms crossed, glaring.

"You're so fuckin' cute when you're pissed," Neal said, grinning. "Little girly leatherboy..."

Steve said nothing, only continued to glare.

"Lemme guess," Neal said. "You're too stupid to figure out how to undo the collar."

"You're too stupid to figure out how to get your finger out," Steve snapped.

Neal pulled again, hard, steady, until Steve was within inches of his face, and there was a
sarcastic quirk to his mouth and amused challenge in his gaze. "But I'm not the one
wearing a dog collar."

Then before Steve could react, Neal leaned in and kissed him.

Maybe it was only supposed to be a joke. Maybe. But caught by surprise, Steve opened into it before thought or brain caught up, opened into it and returned it with equal fervor that suddenly turned ferocious, heavy. There was a faint smell of pot, cheap beer, sweat, and Steve was breathing it in and couldn't get enough, even as Neal pressed him back against the crates, pressed hard, hip to hip and grinding, until Steve moaned into Neal's mouth...

..and just as suddenly, Neal pulled away.

They both stood there, staring at each other wide-eyed, and Neal opened his mouth.

"Guys..." It was a call from the other room, too close, not close enough. "Stage call. Get going."

Whatever Neal had been about to say came out as a curse instead. Neal spun away, stalked out of the room before Steve could gather any wits to call him back, before Steve could do anything more than just lean against the crates, boneless and breathing hard, trying to decide if that had really happened.

"Hey." Herbie stood at the door, glaring into the room. "That meant you, too, Perry. Get your ass in gear."

Steve pushed away from the crates, wiping hurriedly at his mouth. He brushed past Herbie without a word, avoiding eye contact, but felt the man staring at him.

"A dog collar?" Herbie said sarcastically.

"Fuck off, Herbie," Steve said, and went out to face the music.

Fanfic100 #005: Outsides

2006-04-11T03:05:37Z

Steve felt hysterical laughter bubble up, and he tried to choke it down. Noise. He couldn't make any noise. The chick wasn't helping, either. The quirk stretched into a slight grin, and the expression looked so odd on her face...

But then her gaze turned serious and slid past him, her head cocked. She brushed past him, further into the cubbyhole, and Steve realized with a jolt that it wasn't the small space he'd thought. The darkness behind him opened up into hollow silence.

Hawk laid her hand on the wall, feeling along it, and her fingers curled around a corner, just a bare foot from where Steve was standing. She stood for a moment, gazing into the darkness around the corner.

"You said this way," she said quietly.

"No, I --" Steve stopped. No, he had said it.

What the hell did this chick do to me?

She took a step, the darkness sliding over her until she was only a grey, indistinct shape. Steve pushed away from the wall he was leaning on, reaching to touch the other wall to let it guide him after her. His hand slid along it, found the corner even as he stepped into the darkness. Blinded, he couldn't see her anymore, could only hear breathing, and, struggling not to completely lose it, continued to feel around the corner, looking for the light switch, anything to end the darkness and get himself back in the light.

A hand gripped his wrist, stopping him. Startled, Steve inhaled on a yell, choked.

"Don't," Hawk's voice said, right next to him. "It might not be a light switch."

"Yeah," Steve murmured. "Right." He waited, as his eyes slowly adjusted enough to make out shapes in the darkness, things hanging down, shapes on the floor. There was an odd smell to the air, part chemical, part rot, sharp and sour, and he lifted his hand to cover his mouth and nose, trying not to gag or breathe too deeply. But he heard Hawk's breathing deepen, and realized that there was faint light coming from somewhere below his line of sight, light that steadily grew brighter, the blue-white of a pure burning filament.

He looked down, saw Hawk's hand. It was glowing. She was rubbing at her head with her other hand, her forehead and face squinted as if the light hurt her eyes.

"You okay?" Steve said.

She only raised her hand up so that the light fell in a wider circle around them, then she breathed in sharply. Steve only blinked up at that light, as he fell into step behind her and they moved slowly through the shadowy space. Less bright than an oil lantern, but steady, blue-white. He couldn't see anything in her hand except for that light, casting its faint glowing circle around them, holding the hollow darkness at bay.

"How are you doing that?" He kept his tone calm, curious. It wasn't easy. He was one step from freaking out, good and royal.

There's a lot more to be scared of right now.

She kept moving, didn't look back. "I'm a namer."

Well, that was more than he'd gotten out of her so far. "Okay."

"I talk to things. I tell them to be what they are. Or other than what they are." There was an odd note to her voice, a tremor that hadn't been there before. "Sometimes it's easy. Sometimes I need to do a little convincing."

"Convincing," Steve echoed. "Jesus."

"Not much luck with him." The tremor went to full shake. "Sorry."

They brushed past one of the shapes on the ground, and Hawk flinched away violently. Steve glanced down; enough of the light fell on it for him to see.

Too clearly.

His breath sucked in, sharp, cold. He couldn't move, couldn't get enough breath to scream, frozen, staring down at something that was definitely human, definitely not alive. He hoped. Humans couldn't live as that, not with so much missing, not with so much inside on the outside, not with so much smeared wetly over that...that..

He couldn't stop staring. He wanted to. He wanted to look away, as it suddenly sunk in what all the shapes were, around them, above them, suspended as so much meat. But he couldn't stop staring, feeling his breath burning in his chest, his mouth open and gasping and...

Meat...

Hands were on his shoulders, wrenching him around. "Look at me," Hawk said, in a low, shaking voice. "Look at me, Stephen."

Somehow he focused. Anything, anything to not have to look around him.

"Keep it in," Hawk said in a low, fierce voice. "Swallow it. You let it out, you make any noise above what we're talking right now, and they'll hear. And then we'll be there."

"Christ," Steve whispered. "You're so goddam calm!"

She kept a tight hold on his wrist, turned, pulling him along with her.

"Are you even fuckin' human?"

"I've seen three people I know." Her voice shook.

Oh god...Neal..Aynsley...

"...and right now, I want to name this place 'rubble' and wipe it off the map." Her grip on his wrist tightened. "But I do that, and we don't get out."

There were muffled noises coming from somewhere ahead of them, and faint light. Suddenly the light around Hawk's hand was gone, and Hawk pulled Steve deeper into the darkness. She halted, and Steve stood trembling behind her, gradually becoming aware that they were right next to another one of the shapes, the hard plastic edges that encased it barely touching his right wrist. He jerked away, felt Hawk tighten her grip on his wrist again, managed to stop himself and stand, tense and shivering, his gaze resolutely turned away, towards the faint light.

I'm sorry. Whoever you are, I'm sorry.

The faint light ahead wasn't moving, and Steve could make out an opening in the far wall, a definite, edged shadow against the light; the noises weren't getting closer. Trying to keep his mind away from the shapes around them, Steve listened hard. Voice, the noise was a voice, muffled, high-pitched keening that had him trembling, feeling his teeth set and the skin of his back shudder, as if someone was scraping metal down his spine. He would not run. He would not.

Slowly, too slowly, Hawk eased forward, made it to the wall. She pulled him forward, then her hand was on his shoulder, pressing him against the wall, a definite, firm sign.

Stay here.

There wasn't any warning. She was no longer gripping his wrist or shoulder. She stepped out, around the edge of the wall, and charged.

Like hell.

Steve stepped around the wall edge. Grey walls, bright overhead light, metal shapes with blinking green LEDs. Three of the things gathered around a struggling shape on a table; at least, two of them had been. Hawk was on them, dodging and striking out, her foot solidly connecting in one's midsection even as her hand lashed out, but the third...

The third was edging towards an open space in the far wall. Steve didn't think beyond that. He charged, tackled it before it even realized he was there, and bore it down to the hard floor. It flailed, trying to grab his throat, scratching at his eyes, writhing, struggling, slapping at Steve's face. Somehow he held on, panic and fear driving him, and managed to shift his grip up to the thing's throat, even as it got its hands under his chin, pushing up hard, its fingers crawling up towards his eyes, digging in. Steve jerked his head aside, tightened his hands around its throat. Light, it felt so light, delicate, and rage and fear had Steve lifting its neck up, pounding its head against the hard floor, over and over. There was a sound like wet chicken bones pulling apart; the long hands went limp, and greyish ooze was spattered and spreading on the floor.

There was another wet noise behind him, and Steve let go of it, twisted in time to see the last of the things collapse to the floor. Hawk spun, relaxed when she saw it was only him, and stepped back, wiping at her face with her forearm. She was spattered with ooze, and bleeding from a cut on her arm, and Steve saw she held long knives, knives that she wiped off on one of the bodies, then sheathed...somewhere. He hadn't seen those before, strapped to her thighs, and even now, knowing they were there...

Hawk's gaze moved to the thing on the ground next to him, then back to him for a long moment, before stopping to rest on the table. Her expression changed.

That pulled his own gaze up, to see the table from underneath, an ugly, mechanical thing tilted up at a rough 45-degree angle, haloed by the overhead light. Someone was on top of that table, their arms visible, secured and shackled to sidebars that were lowered alongside so that the shoulders were pulled back painfully tight, and then it sunk in that the hair hanging down from the edges was familiar, too familiar, curled, frizzed-out...

Shock brought Steve to his feet, before his brain caught up and he twisted away, not wanting to see, not wanting such a sight to be the last. He stood as that, shivering, unable to think, unable to speak, listening to the sounds of Hawk murmuring, low, soothing, and over it was that noise, that high-pitched, terrified whimpering.

That noise spun him back around. Alive...

Dear God.

From the angle he was at and the angle of the table, he could only see the top of Neal's head. He didn't want to come closer. He didn't want to see the rest, what he knew had to be there, after everything in the other room.

Hawk suddenly grabbed his arm and yanked him over. Steve stumbled, caught himself on the edge of the table, seeing the whole of it before he could twist away. Neal's eyes were closed tight, his mouth gagged by a metal brace that forced his chin up, exposing his throat; his breathing was harsh, loud. Other bands bound him to the table, around his upper chest, his thighs, holding him in place, and Steve saw that Neal's legs were bent, his knees resting on pads at the other end, and between them, a stark, metal basin sat just below the table edge. Then Steve's gaze was drawn up, to a small tray just to the side, glittering edges of metal lined up along it...

"Hang on," Hawk said. "I'm on it."

Before he could ask, she had bent down, below the table, and he heard the faint whispering start. Shaking from relief, Steve laid a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Hey." His voice cracked, even at a whisper. Steve swallowed, tried again. "Hang in there. I - we're getting you out."

Neal's eyes stayed tightly closed, his throat pulsing with shallow gulps, and Steve could see the guitarist's hands clench. Somehow out of the panic, the fear, the terror of the last hour came an idea that had him leaning down, closer. "Neal...think blue."

There was a muffled noise from under the table. But Neal opened his eyes, stared at Steve.

"Yeah, I know," Steve said, speaking to that scared, disbelieving gaze, speaking as much to himself as to Neal. "I feel the same way. But just think it. Like that blue sky, outside. Really clear. No clouds, just that bright blue that hurts your eyes. And...and that hawk we saw before last night's show, y'know?"

Neal's expression was easy to read. You are fuckin' crazy.

Steve wasn't sure he qualified as sane, either. But then there was a sudden click, then a metallic slither, and suddenly the bindings retracted. Steve's breath hissed in, as he found himself holding the sudden full weight of Neal to stop him from falling off the table. He settled for turning it into a controlled slide, so that Neal ended up on his hands and knees on the floor. There was one, choked, gasping sob, quickly caught and inhaled, and Neal was bent over his knees, his hands clenched, his breath heaving. Steve said nothing, only knelt and wrapped his arms around the younger man and pulled him into a rough hug. Neal went limp, shivering, dead weight against Steve's shoulder.

There was movement, out of the corner of his eye, and Steve looked back. Hawk was studying the body of the thing that he'd tackled, and then Hawk's gaze moved to meet his. For a moment, her face looked odd, considering, then went blank. Casual, unconcerned.

She came over, knelt down. "Blue?"

He ignored that. "Neal?" Steve said softly. "This -- this is Hawk. She helping us."

Neal didn't move.

"Neal," Hawk said.

There was an odd note to her voice, a ghost of an inflection. It brought Neal's head up.

"I know what you're going through," Hawk said gently. "But right now we need to get out of here. Once we're outside, you can freak out. Deal?"

Neal watched her, his breathing still harsh, shallow. "Aynsley," he whispered. "They had Aynsley."

"I know," Steve murmured. "Ross said --"

"No." Neal closed his eyes. "No. They had him. Before me. I saw. They took him. They -- I -- oh... fuckin'... christ..."

"Where?" Hawk said.

Neal lifted his chin, towards the opening near where the third thing lay.

Hawk got to her feet, moved silently towards it, stopped for a moment at the edge, her head cocked. Steve saw her look down for a moment, eyes squeezed shut and lips compressed to a thin line, then she raised her head, stepped around the edge.

Silence.

That brought Steve to his feet, pulling Neal up with him. He took a step, but Neal pulled away.

"No," Neal whispered.

Steve opened his mouth to snap, saw the younger man's expression, his eyes, and breathed out. "Stay here," he said instead, as gently as he could, and turned. He'd only made it halfway when Neal caught up, staggering into him.

"Don't leave," Neal said.

Christ. "Come on, then," Steve said, and made it to the edge, and that silence.

The smell hit him as he stepped around the edge, stinging, acid chemical that made his eyes water. He saw Hawk standing just a foot or so away, and opened his mouth to say something, when he saw the table in front of her, the same 45 degree tilt, another figure bound to it.

Then the smell really sunk in. Raw meat. Blood. Shit.

Steve stopped, feeling Neal behind him, the younger man shivering so violently that he had collapsed against the wall. Steve opened his mouth again, trying to get the words out, but his voice only croaked, and Hawk turned, her eyes glassy, bright.

At that moment, there was a moan from the table, a moan that sobbed up to a thin cry.

"Aynsley," Neal whispered, and staggered past Steve, as Steve felt relief rush through him, even as he caught up with Neal...

Hawk grabbed them, wrenched them both around, away from the sight. Steve ended on his hands and knees, fighting not to vomit, listening to Neal swear in great, heaving gasps. The moaning cries continued, and Steve brought his hands up to cover his face, breathing in the earthy smell of his mud-smeared hands, trying to block the smell of the room, the sight, anything to get it out of his head. He was vaguely aware of Hawk kneeling in front of them, and he looked up. She was blurred, haloed in spots from the dim light from the other room, and he blinked, unable to get the blurriness to clear.

"Can you help him?" Steve's voice was high, trembling, lost. "Please. Can you? Anything. Anything."

Hawk bowed her head. "Yeah," she said. "But I'll need your help."

My...?

Before he could resist or realize what she was doing, Hawk had hauled him to his feet, gently pushed him backwards until he could see Aynsley's face, though out of the corner of his eye, just at the edge of his vision...

He started to shiver uncontrollably, and stared at the far wall. He would not look. He would not.

"Don't turn around," Hawk said quietly. She stood at the head of the table, her hand resting gently on the drummer's forehead. "What's his name?"

It took a moment for the words to get through the haze of fear and nausea. "Aynsley. Aynsley Dunbar."

He saw Aynsley turn his head, and the moan choked into a wet, bubbling gasp. Steve looked away. He couldn't face it. Not that.

Hawk was silent for a moment. "Talk to him," she said. "Just talk. Anything. Like you did with Neal."

That was it. Talk. He wanted to scream at her, couldn't she see what was there, and all she wanted him to do was talk? Then it sunk in; she could see it, and she was facing it. And he couldn't.

It.

Steve swallowed, hard. Not an it. It was Aynsley. Not a friend, but at least someone he knew. Someone who now... His mouth was dry, he couldn't breathe save in short, hard gasps, but somehow Steve forced the words out. "Ay -- Aynes? It's...it's me. Steve. You -- you're gonna be okay. It's gonna be all right."

He could hear his voice, still that high, trembling quaver. He kept his gaze fixed on Hawk. She would fix it. She'd done everything else. She would. He could hear her whispering, the peculiar inflected patterns.

It'll be okay.

"It's okay," Steve said again. He couldn't keep his voice calm, not knowing what was just behind him, what he was refusing to look at. He heard Aynsley's breathing speed up, shallow, fast. "It's gonna be okay."

Movement caught his gaze. Neal had stood up, staring at them with wide, glassy eyes. His arms were crossed, clenched around himself as if he was cold, and he was shaking visibly. Slowly, step by step, he came over, and Steve saw the younger man's gaze briefly move past him, then flinch aside. But Neal didn't stop until he reached the head of the table.

"Aynes?" Neal whispered.

Aynsley's breathing slowed, deep, scary. Then, words, clear, soft, precise. "I'm dying."

"No," Steve said, too loudly. Conscious. Aynsley was conscious. With that...

Neal spoke over him. "Yeah."

Hawk's whispering went on, over and over, soft, compelling; her hand was on Aynsley's forehead. Steve realized he couldn't hear Aynsley breathing, and started to look, caught sight of what he'd been trying not to see, then turned away, resolutely, his eyes squeezed shut. Somewhere, off in the distance, he could hear another noise, a resonant, dissonant humming.

There was a deep, sudden breath. "Scared."

Neal laid his arm across Aynsley's upper chest in a partial hug, so that his hand cupped the right side of the drummer's face, and knelt enough so that his head was level with Aynsley's. "I know," Neal whispered. "I'm here. I'm not leaving, Aynes. I'm here." The breathing had gone fast, shallow, then stopped.

"Keep going," Hawk said quietly. "Anything. Give him something to focus on."

Neal paused a moment, looking lost. "We're here, Aynes. Both of us. You're not alone. I -- I mean -- yeah. Think of your drums, Aynes. That stupid solo you been doing for Wheel."

Steve looked down. Aynsley's eyes were closed, but a ghost of a smile traced across his face. "Light."

"Yeah," Neal whispered. "That."

"Tell him to follow it," Hawk said softly.

Steve stared at her, but Neal only nodded. "Aynes. Hey. That light. Follow it. It'll help. Like the stage lights. Just follow 'em."

Aynsley's mouth was wide open, gasping.

"I'm here," Neal whispered. "I'm with you, man. Follow the light, Aynes. I'm with you."

There was a slow inhale. "Sky," Aynsley breathed.

Silence.

There was a moment, a long, long moment, the resonant, dissonant humming loud in the silence. Steve stared, and stared. Aynsley's eyes were wide, staring at nothing. Limp.

"Let's go," Hawk said. Her voice sounded thick.

Steve looked up, shocked, feeling heat clawing at his gut. She was biting her lip, her cheeks damp. She looked young, too young. But anger had his mouth. "You killed him."

Something stilled in her face, hardened. "And you ignored him and lied to him." She turned away, then looked back.

Neal hadn't moved, still knelt with his head bowed, his hands on Aynsley's shoulders.

"Come on," Hawk said quietly. "He's outside now."

Fanfic100 #004: Insides

2006-03-27T03:50:05Z

Part 4 of "Alien Sky", crossposted to zenfrodo and Fanfic100. Here is the big table of all the parts to date. Hours & Days are probably going to be pulled shortly & lengthened to match & expand on what's now happening

--------------------

It stopped.

Steve had been standing, uncertain, shaken, surrounded by dust and stage gear and amps. Now he lay sprawled, belly-down, in rich earth and dead leaves, gripping bare roots in his hands until he was certain, certain that the world wasn't going to move like that again. His vision was clouded, white-greyed over, and he closed his eyes, panting in the smell of earth and leaves.

There was soft rustling to his right. Dizzy, confused, he turned his head and, through the filmy haze, saw the chick kneeling in the leaves and earth, leaning heavily against that staff, her eyes closed.

"That," she whispered, "was not fun." She raised her head, staring up the hillside.

Steve pushed himself up to his elbows, halted when his stomach threatened to rebel. No. He would not get sick. Not here. Not now. Not in front of...that...

He swallowed, hard, blinked around. They were surrounded by thick, tangled trees and earth, old underbrush, tangled vines. It was a deep, twisty, long-running ravine, and they were at the bottom, the base of a sharp, steep slope, and it looked like a long, long crawl to the crest. He could hear wind, and bird-chatter, far up in the trees. Somewhere.

"Here?" he managed, and his chest spasmed into racking coughs.

She cocked her head back towards him.

He forced air to wheeze back into his lungs, gasped the words out around the choking. "Why? If you could...could to that...that...I don't know, bibbity-bobbity-boo shit...why not..."

"Most folks," she said quietly, "would be lighting firebrands right now."

He said nothing. He was scared shitless, but damned if he was going to...to...

To what?

"Your face ain't green," Steve said instead, between heavy, weighted breaths that made the world sway and tilt. "And you don't have warts."

"I'm in disguise." She stared back up the hillside. "Come on. Up."

He didn't move. The earth held him too lightly, and if he moved, it would all tumble away again. He knew it.

"Come on," she said again. "It'll get better if you move."

He looked up at her. She hadn't moved, either.

Her mouth quirked. "Yeah. I know. But we don't have a choice."

The word finally made it out. "How?"

She didn't move, studying him for a long moment. Finally, slowly, she turned her left hand palm-up, uncurled her fingers, and Steve felt his breath suck in, sharp, cold.

A handful of dirt, mud, soaked in grayish ooze.

"That," she said, her voice low, quiet. "And you. Like you said, back there. A link." She braced herself to her feet, stood swaying for a moment, took a halting step. "I didn't bring us in closer. I didn't dare. They already know I'm after them. I didn't need to --"

The other words made it out. "What the fuck are you?"

There was a moment, an instant; he saw it cross her face. Then her foot snapped out, caught him hard on the shoulder, sprawling him into the mud and leaves again.

"Fine," she snapped, her voice still low, furious. "Go ahead and freak out now. Stay here. Get caught. Idiot. I don't have time." She turned, using her staff as balance to start up the long, steep climb.

Steve swallowed again, anger coiled around his fear, and forced himself up, to stagger after her. "Wait."

She halted, balanced against a tree, braced with the staff, and glared down at him as he made his way slowly up to her, slipping on the uncertain, treacherous footing.

"I should," she said, in a low, calm voice. "Knock you out, leave you here. Bait. Decoy. Give them an explanation for all the noise. Then they'll drag you in, toss you with your friends, and I can leave the lot of you and get on with my job."

"Look..."

"You invited yourself along," she said. "You can't take that, you can't face the consequences, shut up and leave."

The anger reared suddenly. "Bitch," he spat.

Another instant. Her face closed. "Yeah," she said. "I am. And that's the least of what you're calling me inside you, Staedhan Raí Piorra."

It was his name, that odd whispering inflection that twisted it inside out, sharpened it, hurled it, and it sliced deep, jagged, a cold knifing slap. Steve couldn't move, couldn't twist away from it, as it pulled everything from him, fistfuls of bleeding, hurting fear and anger and self, threw it up into his face, a raw and bleeding mirror that he stared full into, cold, biting, hard-edged user of a --

No.

He squeezed his eyes shut, collapsed against a slender, gnarled tree, forked and bent, its leaves trembling from his weight against its trunk. Real, normal.

He looked back. She was about halfway up the slope, keeping herself low to the ground as she stretched from hand-hold to foot-hold, bracing herself with the staff over one treacherous patch, stopping to catch a breath before stretching up to the next outcrop.

Bitch.

Something twisted inside him, hard and cold, and Steve found himself looking back at the last few minutes. Looking back, and squirming.

The insults started with you, asshole.

It was almost enough, almost, to send him running, running all the way back to the stadium, the stage, what remained of the band...

...what remained...

Not like he knew which way to run, for that matter. Steve swallowed again, turned, resolutely started up the hill after her. She had to have heard him; when he looked up at one point, she'd stopped again, settled against a mossy rock, watching him silently with that intense, blue glare.

"You know," she said fiercely, after several long minutes, as he got within soft ear-shot, "I knock you down from here, and you won't be getting up again."

Steve paused, hands and knees pressed into the earth. He ached, the stretching and slipping from root to rock to stump, mud and earth and weed embedded under his fingernails and into his skin. Too tired for anger, too scared. He pulled himself up, reaching the rock, all but fell against it, gulping air. "You never told me your name."

"No," she said, getting up and pulling herself to the top of the rock. "I didn't."

He found himself watching her, studying her. He'd thought she was mid-twenties. Now, he wasn't sure, not from this angle. For a moment, she looked younger, much younger, but her face was so hard, so angry...

"Look," he said quietly. "I don't know what to call you. You don't tell me, and all I can call you is 'it'. Those things were 'its'. You don't -- I mean, you're not..." He stopped, tried again. "You didn't deserve that."

"Much, you mean," she said, her gaze on the slope.

Steve looked away.

Silence for a moment. "Names have power," she said finally. "Who you are, what you are, where you've been, where you're going. I don't give that out."

"I told you mine."

"Yeah," she said. "You did."

No. He wouldn't get angry. He was too exhausted, too sore. He just looked at her, trying to catch his breath, trying not to think of the rest of the climb still to go. But then he saw her gaze tilt past him, widen. He twisted, saw it, just as she slid down from her vantage point to land beside him, and pulled him around the rock, into its scant cover.

Below, on the ravine floor, walking it, searching, looking, were two of the things.

He couldn't breathe, his heart thumping painfully. They were out in the open, surrounded only by trees and mud and vines. One of them knelt, staring intently at the ground. The other was watching the underbrush, its head moving in a slow circle. All those things had to do was look up, and...and...

"Brown," she said softly, right in his ear, pressing him into the moss of the rock. "Think brown. Think it hard." Steve opened his mouth, but she cut him off. "Don't argue. Just do it."

Brown. How the hell was he supposed to think about brown right now? Those things were...were...

He heard soft whispering, felt her pressing against him from behind, pressing him into the rock, one arm braced in front of him, covering, shielding. But he couldn't stop staring down at the things, the things that had now stopped, flat, featureless faces looking up the hillside.

One whispered word cut through the panic. "Staedhan."

He dropped his gaze to the ground. Brown. Earth. Mud. What surrounded him, what was smeared over his skin and clothes and embedded under his fingernails. He breathed out, staring hard at the ground, forced his eyes to relax. The whispering flowed around him, breathed against his shoulder and neck, flowing into the brown, around him, through him...

A heartbeat, or several. The things' gazes moved over the hillside, over him, moved on. Slowly, too slowly, they moved on, pacing the earth and leaves with no noise, no trace, and the whispering stilled.

"Come on," she said softly, as the things vanished around the twist of the ravine bed. "We got to move. Now."

Steve wasn't going to argue. She was already starting the climb, slow, patient, turning to give him hands up, tapping on footholds, handholds. He thought he'd been aching and dirty before, but now...

His breathing was still short, hard, his heart still pounding, his head light and dizzy. His world narrowed, rock, earth, mud, roots, stones, stretching from one to the other, hanging on, praying it wouldn't let go until he'd settled firmly onto the toehold. Finally, though, Steve was scrambling up the last stretch, under a dead log and over a rock, crawling to collapse beside her under an overhang of bush and vine at the crest of the ridge. He didn't want to speak, couldn't, could only lie there, gulping air.

"Hawk," she said quietly.

He didn't understand that, and looked at her. He didn't have the breath to voice his confusion.

She wouldn't look at him. "I'll answer to 'Hawk'."

Great. A chick with fantasy Indian delusions. But Steve couldn't muster the strength for any sarcasm.

She'd stretched up to look over the edge of the crest, stared, biting her lip. Somehow, Steve managed to pull himself up, just enough to peer over the edge. Suddenly he couldn't breathe again, the enormity of what he'd gotten himself into finally sinking in.

The ridge dropped away again, below them, a gentler slope down to a wider ravine, cleared and leveled. In the center of it was a low, grey dome -- like a dinner plate turned upside down and hovering slightly above the table, but building-large. No bricks, no mortar. He couldn't tell what it was made of. It huddled squat and solitary in the ravine, ominous and stupid-looking both, as bad as any Z-grade sci-fi movie he'd ever seen on the late show. There were no fences, no barriers, not that he could see.

They...don't need them.

"Second thoughts?" the chick said quietly.

Steve said nothing.

"You picked that up quick, back there." Her gaze was still on the dome.

It took him a moment to remember what she was talking about. "I'm not like you."

That gaze re-focused on him, intense, blue. "No," she said. "You're not."

Down below, a thing had approached the squat dome, bending to vanish under it. Steve watched it, trying to focus on his breathing, to stay calm. It had been so long already. Neal and Aynsley could be dead by now. But Steve couldn't go back. Those things were out there, they were hunting him. But going forward...

"Come on," she said. "And keep thinking brown."

"Why?" Steve said.

She glanced back. "It blends you in. Mentally."

That made as much sense as anything else in the last half-hour or so. Steve watched as she slowly, carefully got to her knees, crawling over the edge of the ridge and keeping well within the underbrush. She was barely making any noise, pacing slowly from tree to brush to undergrowth. At one point, she halted, looked back at him, and he wavered. Now, with that ominous dinner-plate dome right there...

You invited yourself along, idiot.

Steve swallowed, followed after, trying to match her moves. He wasn't so graceful; his feet wouldn't cooperate on the loose dirt and stone. She watched him for only a moment, then turned and made her way down the rest of the slope, halting again behind a grouping of trees and brush-tangle. Then, only then, did she turn to watch him again with that intense stare. He ignored it, concentrating on his feet and the footholds, bracing himself against rock and trunk, trying to move with the gravity to get from point to point.

It worked okay, until the last few yards. His feet tangled; he landed hard on his side and slid down the rest of the way. He stayed as that for a moment, panting, as dirt and loose rock and mangled weeds trickled on top of him in a thin slurry. He blinked up. She wasn't watching, had turned back to staring at the dome, her face closed.

Steve pushed himself up, pulled himself over to sit beside her and study that dome himself. Quiet. That was the first thing that struck him. Too quiet. He'd made enough noise with that fall for everything in the woods to hear; even the birds had gone silent. But there was no movement from the dome, from anything surrounding it. Nothing.

"It's a trap," he murmured, without thinking.

Now she was looking at him again, her gaze intent, curious. "Yeah," she said. She turned back to study the dome again, biting her lip.

"They're waiting on us," Steve said, wondering at how small his voice sounded.

"No," she said. "They're waiting on me." She slanted a glance at him. "They don't have any way of knowing you'd have come with me. They know I'm after them. You can stay out here."

"You --" Steve caught himself, lowered his voice, fought against his sudden relief. "You're still going in? But --"

"It's a trap," she said quietly. "And I'm going to trigger it." Then a corner of her mouth quirked. "They don't know we know that."

"They'd have to be stupid not to!"

The quirk spread into a grim smile. "Then they don't know that we know they know."

Steve looked at her for a long moment. "Hawk," he said finally, softly, "what are you?"

He'd asked that before. But this time, he was answered with only silence. Her gaze had turned back to the dome, and then, as if some decision had been made, she made a move, as if to get up.

"I'm still in," Steve said.

She looked down at him, then back at the dome. He could almost see her thoughts; he was expecting an argument, or at least pointed sarcasm. "Okay," she said instead.

He started to get up. She stopped him.

"The brown thing," she said. "We're going to change it."

"What," Steve said. "So I don't blend in anymore?"

"No," she said. "So they don't get in."

He shuddered, remembering that odd blankness, the elongated fingers stroking the side of his face. She knelt back down in front of him.

"The quick and dirty way," she said. "I saw packing cases around that stage of yours. Those big metal things. You know what I'm talking about?"

Steve nodded. He thought he could see where this was leading.

"Think of yourself sitting in one of those. All that metal." That gaze focused on him. "Think it real hard."

Despite everything, Steve grinned. Gregg and Ross had done that to him last month, as a joke, just to see if the scrawny runt of a lead singer would fit. It wasn't hard to imagine. But she watched him, and waited, then, suddenly...

...it was a push, hard, painful, but oddly blunted. He blinked, stared at her...

She hadn't moved, her hands resting loosely in her lap.

"That'll work," she said. "Let's go."

He'd thought she'd be stealthy, or at least try not to be seen. But she only got up and walked straight across the cleared space, towards the dome, openly. Steve scrambled to his feet, caught up, his heart pounding again as they both ducked under the edge of it.

She stopped so suddenly that he ran into her. Under the dome, in the shadows, something flickered blue, humming with electricity, a faint glowing field that ran the circumference as far as he could see. No openings, no way in, nothing.

"Shit," Steve whispered.

But out of the corner of his eye --

He twisted, backed into her. Those things. Four of them just appeared, apparently out of nowhere, encircling him and her in an half-circle, closing in.

"Bingo," Hawk said softly.

Steve went cold. She'd expected this?

It was a trap. You knew it. She'd even said she was going to trigger it.

He swallowed, watching as the things closed in, one of them reaching with a graceful, elongated finger...

Metal. Metal.

The finger was stroking the side of his face, the large watery grey eyes staring into his. Steve heard Hawk breathe in, sharp, even as he focused hard, remembering the feel of the packing case, the metal sides, the enclosed quietness. He stared up into the thing's face, defiant, even as he trembled.

He felt another pair of long hands on his shoulders, pushing, gently pushing, guiding, and he resisted, until he heard a noise, twisted in time to see Hawk collapse. Shock held him still, as two of the things hauled her up, limp, dead weight, and dragged her towards the barrier, part of which had vanished, holding only darkness, darkness that would take them, swallow them.

He couldn't think; panic, shock, fear, all of it shook him. He couldn't think, couldn't remember. Suddenly the long hands on him gripped hard, pushing, pulling, and the long fingers gripped his throat, just under his chin, forcing his chin up so that the watery eyes stared down into his. Metal, Steve thought, trying to hold onto the feel of the packing case, but the image cracked, the lid of the case slivering open to let a crack of light in, long fingers running along the edge of the opening...

Panicked, Steve jerked back, brought his arms up and through the thing's hold, breaking it before it could react. The other one was still there, blocking him, and without thought, Steve turned and ran into the opening, where they'd dragged Hawk, pulled up short at the sight of her, hung between two of the things as so much dead meat.

He stopped, frozen -- and then she moved. She collapsed further, her hands braced against the ground, her legs sweeping around hard to take the legs out from under one of them, ending somehow on her own feet to grab the second by its neck and twist.

It dropped. Hawk was down by the first before it could recover, her knee landing on its exposed neck even as her hands grabbed its head and twisted it as she had the others. There was a sickening crack, leathery and crunching.

Through it, Steve stood there. She scrambled to her feet, as the remaining two came in the opening, and she grabbed Steve by the arm, yanked hard. He stumbled into a run, and they fled further into the depths of whatever this was, down a turn, then another, and another, apparently random. Nothing mattered, nothing, except to get away.

Suddenly Hawk turned again, backtracked several paces, then pulled Steve around another corner, into a small cubbyhole, pushing him back into its shadows.

"Metal," she said. "Metal. As hard as you can."

He swallowed hard, closed his eyes. The image, the feel were just there, strong, immediate, as he heard the soft whispering again, whispering that circled around him, echoing slightly from the close walls. The feeling of being closed in doubled, and he heard noises just outside the wall, noises that moved closer, then went past. Another noise hummed in the distance, not heard, but felt, thrumming through his bones and nerves until he wanted to scream.

The whispering faded. Steve opened his eyes, staring past Hawk to what he could see of the corridor. Nothing moved. Nothing he could see, anyway.

"Okay," Hawk murmured. "Fast lesson number three. Think of your friends."

He stared at her, unsure he'd heard that right.

"Your friends," she said gently. "The ones you said got grabbed. Think of them. See them. As if they were standing right here, right next to you."

He was still panicked and rattled enough that he didn't question, didn't think. He'd just been with Neal, before all hell had broken loose, and Steve could still see the young guitarist, those white pants, the blue satin shirt, that ridiculous afro, standing next to him, holding out the toke...

"Which way?" Hawk said softly.

Steve opened his eyes, found himself staring into that intense blue again. He lifted his right hand, reached out, was so shocked to touch the wall, not Neal's shoulder, that he turned to look, unable to believe that the wall really was there.

"Okay," Hawk said. She leaned back, leaned cautiously around the edge of the opening to stare into the corridor. "Let's go."

"Hawk..."

She looked at him. "There's a lot more to be scared of right now, Stephen," she said quietly. "Not that. Never that."

It came out as a whisper. "And you?"

Her mouth quirked again. "Well, I am the person that just dragged you in here..."

Fanfic100 #003: Endings

2006-03-24T05:21:06Z

Big damn table of all the story parts so far. I intend the parts to follow the Fanfic100 "prompts" sequentially, so this is chapter #3, and prompts 6 and 7 take place *after* this. Yes, more is coming. Promise.

--------------------------

The things stood there, unmoving, their gazes fixed on him through the alive and liquid air. Somewhere behind him, Steve heard a gasp, moaned cursing, but he couldn't stop staring at the thing that lay crushed and oozing a foot or so away, or at the figure that stood between him and the creatures.

"Well?" the chick said again.

Something shifted. Steve felt it, deep inside, something turning over, and pressure built, hard and fast, pressing against his ears, his eyes, his mind, until after-images of blue and white danced behind his eyes. Then the air imploded again. Wind and dust kicked up, grinding against his skin and into his eyes. Instinctively he raised a hand, his eyes watering, peered through the settling dust cloud and veins of after-light burned into his retina. The things were gone.

Through it, the chick hadn't moved. She only stood there, short hair and grey shirt whipping in the breeze, her staff slowly lowering to the ground.

"Jesus." Something hit the dirt next to him. Steve blinked up into Ross's face, as the bassist laid hands on him to haul him up to sit.

"They got Neal," Steve said, feeling slow and stupid. Everything still felt unreal, too bright, too hard-edged, slipping away fast and slick and out of control...

"Who's that?" Ross was staring at the chick.

Steve twisted. The chick was kneeling where the dead thing had been, ignoring the two musicians staring at her. She looked young, maybe mid-20s, if that; straight, short-cropped blonde hair, plain-faced, dressed in a grey, worn t-shirt, jeans that might have once been black but for dust and wear, cheap sneakers. Nothing remarkable, nothing noticeable, nothing that would've made him look at her twice. But now he stared at her. Her left hand was pressed flat into the ooze, fingers spread, and her lips were moving soundlessly as her right hand moved on the ground, a slow, deliberate circular pattern.

Something flickered around her hands and arms, just at the edge of sight, crawling up her arm, flickers of purple-white light that connected the ooze to the pattern and back...

Steve could hear whispering, and shivered.

The whispering stopped. The chick was still staring at the ground, then she looked up, towards the hills in the distance, visible over the stadium walls. She picked up the staff from the ground, used it to brace herself to her feet and limp a couple paces away, her back to them.

"Hey," Ross said loudly. "You with the face."

It was as if she didn't hear him at all. She traced something on the ground with the staff, a wider circle this time, and the whispering was back, odd pressure building behind Steve's ears and eyes.

Steve pushed himself to his feet, staggered towards her, stopping short of the staff's reach. "You...you're hunting them," he said.

The whispering stopped. The movement stopped. She turned her head to stare at him, deliberate, even, appraising.

No, not so plain. She had the bluest eyes of anyone he'd ever seen, a vivid electric blue that glowed in the sunlight. Steve made himself meet that gaze, crossing his arms to hide his shaking.

She said nothing, but something about her settled, waiting.

"They took two of us," Steve said. "Two of our friends."

She turned away, dismissively. "They've taken a lot of people."

"I want to help." The words were out before he could stop them. He couldn't stop them, even as that gaze turned back on him, and in horror, he heard himself babbling, words tumbling out before he could make sense of them. "You -- I saw what you did. You're gonna need a link, something to track 'em with. A really strong tie for that vodoo shit. Friendship and music and all that."

Her head tilted, still eyeing him. "You have any idea what that actually means?"

His brain caught up. "Ahh..."

"You've seen too many bad movies," she said, turning away again.

"He's a fuckin' pothead with delusions of grandeur," Ross said.

"You stopped them," Steve said, ignoring Ross. "You --"

Impatience touched her voice; she didn't turn around, speaking over her shoulder. "The longer you keep babbling stupid shit at me, the more time they got. The more time, the more people they'll grab. The more time they get to spend on your...friends."

Somewhere behind him, he could hear sirens, shouts, chaos. Behind him was the stage, his real life, everything he'd wanted and hoped for, rising in the smoke of whatever had hit. In front of him...

"You stopped them," he said again, and saw her roll her eyes. "I mean, they were hunting me. They were after me. They passed Ross and were coming for me." He was babbling again, didn't care. "They grabbed Neal, they grabbed Aynes, and they wanted me, too. If I stay here, they'll just come back for me. And nothing'll stop them. They'll get what they want."

She bowed her head, muttered something under her breath.

"What?" Steve said.

Something in that gaze quirked. "I said, it is my life to protect fools from God."

He stared at her. "Those things weren't God."

"But you are an idiot," she said. "Though you've got a point." The something settled around her again. "Come over here. And don't break the line."

Something about the way she said that... Steve hesitated, started forward, only to have Ross grab his arm and spin him back around.

"Excuse me?" Ross said.

Steve stared at him. Weird. He'd never noticed Ross had blue eyes, just like... He twisted back to look at the chick, who watched, silent.

"Hey." Ross shook him, hard. "Earth to stupid singer. I know you and Neal were smoking that shit, but it wasn't cut that badly. Your brain can't be that fried."

Steve pulled away, turned towards the chick. Three steps, and he halted. Something was there. An edge. Something. He wasn't sure what, but it tugged at the edge of his sight, barely there. He carefully took a larger step, ending directly in front of her, and trying to ignore the nagging feeling that something was gone, gone forever, and he'd never get it back...

"You got a name?" she said. "Or you just exist to look stupid?"

It caught him off-guard. "Uh...Steve."

"And you still look stupid," Ross said.

For a moment, the chick stared at the sky, sighed. "Okay. My fault, that time. Take two. Your full name. And birth date."

This time he stared at her.

"Well?" she said.

"What the hell you need that for?"

"Look," she said, "we got two ways to go here. You can either keep delaying me with stupid questions, and more people die. Or you just answer me and we get this over with. Comprende?"

"Look, babe," Steve said. "I didn't --"

"Fine." She turned abruptly, smacked one end of the staff on the ground, said a word. The something that had been around them wasn't there suddenly, and she stalked a short distance away, started to trace out a circle in the dirt with the staff again.

He looked back. Ross was still standing there, eyes wide, visibly shaken and looking lost, his hands clenching and unclenching.

"Go find Gregg," Steve said, into that shaken silence. "And...and tell Herbie."

"Tell him what?" Ross said. "The aliens didn't get you, but the groupies did?"

Behind him, Steve heard the chick snort. "Yeah," Steve said. "Something like that."

"If you're thinking that," the chick said, "those things'll be the least of your worries."

"If you don't make it back in one piece," Ross said to Steve, quietly, "those things and that chick will be a sunny fuckin' beach compared to what I'll do to you."

He reached again, this time to clasp Steve's arm firmly, goodbye, good luck, all of the above and somewhere beyond. Steve swallowed, pulled away, turned to face her. She had paused, leaning on that staff, head cocked, her gaze a vivid, intense blue glare that wanted the idiot to stay behind. But slowly, deliberately, Steve went over, halted at the edge of the something.

"Steve," he said. "I..I mean, Stephen Ray Perry. January twenty-second, nineteen forty-nine. You want my rank and serial number, too?"

That gaze gave him a slow once-over. "No. This is the quick and dirty version. Get in here."

He wasn't about to ask what "here" was. He stepped over that edge, felt something close behind him, even as the whispering started again. No, it was her, she was whispering, deliberate, precisely enunciated words that turned the air alive and trembling, sliding over his skin to wrap him in stillness. He listened, listened harder; it wasn't any language he knew, nothing he could place, though she sounded calm, matter-of-fact, as if telling the air, the world what it would do.

He heard her say his name, that same odd whispering speech, and started. It set his heart thumping, an odd inflection that pulled him in and wove him into whatever it was that surrounded them. He wasn't separate, not anymore, it wove through him, through his skin, his heart...

The whispering stilled. Everything paused, a heartbeat.

"Rás," the chick said.

And the world went light.

Fanfic100 #006: hours

2006-02-28T06:35:56Z

okay. writing it backwards, forwards and inside-out. - cpv

-------------------------------
"Go away," Steve said quietly.

The suit said nothing, stone-faced, watching him, giving nothing away.

Control. Steve had to stay in control. But his skin itched, his hair matted and tangled; his head felt ready to burst. His clothes were still soaked in some places, dried stiff in others. He was muddy and filthy and aching for a long stand under a hot shower. Just hours ago...god, he was still seeing it, he couldn't get the sight out of his head...

Aynsley.

...and from that, dragged through the hell of metal, mud and fire and back to the stadium, then grabbed by another creature entirely, a creature of dark mirrored sunglasses and somber black suit and a badge, grabbed and dragged back here...

"Who were you with?" the suit said.

Steve said nothing, focusing on a spot on the carpet, his muddy boot prints, ground-in...

"Mister Perry."

"I'm not a 'mister'," Steve said.

"Who - were - you - with?" Cold. Enunciated.

He needed a bath. He really needed to go and scrub and scrub until everything, every speck, every memory was wiped away and pulled down the drain. He couldn't get out of the chair, his muscles too limp, too tired.

"Steve."

That pulled his gaze up, to glare through his matted, tangled hair. "You don't have the right to call me that, either."

"Right now," the man said calmly, "the only rights you have are the ones we let you keep."

Steve held the suit's gaze, even as a chill threaded its way through the empty exhaustion of his thoughts.

"You were seen," the man said.

"I was grabbed," Steve said, "by those things."

"You were not," the man said. "Witnesses place you near the stage during the...incident. And place you there after."

Witnesses...Ross. Neal.

"If you know that," Steve said, as the chill settled, a heavy weight in his gut, "then you know who I was with. Quit the fuckin' games."

The suit smiled thinly. "This is no game."

Steve looked away.

"We know why they wanted you," the man said. "Did she even tell you that?"

She. Steve kept his gaze turned away, silent, focusing on the rusty A/C unit on the near wall.

"How much did she tell you?"

The A/C rattled tepid air into the room. Its paint was peeling, rust scored underneath it. The noise was loud, rhythmic, oddly soothing.

"That much," the man said softly.

At that, Steve looked back at him. "I said, go away."

The thin smile was back. "You don't understand the situation, singer-boy. They grabbed you. And we don't know where you're at. No one will. It's that easy."

The suit's hand moved. Too late, Steve saw the slender grey barrel in the man's hand, saw it jerk, felt the sharp, stinging impact into his shoulder. He cried out, felt the cry only as an in-drawn, nerveless gasp of air that sucked his voice from him, a nightmare where he couldn't move, couldn't scream, struggling against the blackness dragging him down, a blackness that wrapped around his own exhaustion and lulled it into deep, deep, unconsciousness..

"He said," said another voice, from somewhere near the door, and Steve cried out in voiceless terror again, "go away."

The air turned alive and thick, crawling over the suit, wrapping around him to hold him still. The man went unmoving, his hands limp, the grey barrel dropping to the carpet. Behind him, mud-soaked, battered, Neal limped into the room, stopped, leaned heavily against the wall, staring at Steve.

Fear, terror, exhaustion, rage -- somehow Steve dragged himself back up from the blackness, got his mouth to move, focusing his blurry, fading eyes on the man and forcing his lungs to scream the air out in a hoarse, strengthless whisper. "Go. Away."

He felt it, even through the thick air and dragging blackness, the snap, the push. The man's face went slack, and he jerked around, as if pushed, prodded to the door...

Fading, Steve didn't see the rest.

##

He drifted awake, slowly, becoming aware of several things, things that didn't seem to matter, but were prodding him into wakefulness all the same. He was lying on on crumpled sheets that smelled strongly of earth and crushed weeds, sheets that covered a mattress that was warm and too soft. Something rattled close by, blowing metallic air across his feet. His skin itched, crawling, and suddenly, before he could stop it, Steve yawned hugely.

There was a weight at his feet, a weight that shifted. "Steve?"

Neal. Steve didn't move, staring into the darkness. "How long?" It came out as a whisper.

"Couple hours." The weight shifted again.

Steve pushed himself up -- instant mistake. The air spun around him, and, dizzy, he swayed, tried to grab the edge of the bed, missed, ended up rolling hard onto the floor, tangled in blankets and sheets. He pushed himself to his hands, made it to his knees, then, as his stomach rolled, struggled to the bathroom, making it to the toilet before he lost everything in his stomach.

He knelt there for a long time, as his guts heaved, until nothing more came up, and shaking, sweating, biting back dry heaves, he reached over into the tub, pulled the water knobs on and the shower up. He didn't care about temperature, barely cared enough to strip his clothes off before he crawled into the tub and sat there, letting the water pound him, watching the mud and dirt flow off of him. Finally, he got his hands on the rim of the tub, braced himself up, twisted the right knob until the water ran hot, and he leaned back against the tile, as the hot water poured over him. He got his hand wrapped around a washcloth, and started scrubbing, hard.

It won't come out. It'll never come out. Never. Never.

The water turned warm, tepid, cold. He leaned heavily against the knobs, shutting off the flow. He only stood there, letting the water drip off of him, looking at the mud-spattered mess of the tub and tile. His skin was clean, at least. He grabbed a towel, staggered to the door.

Neal still sat at the edge of the bed. Wordlessly, the younger man got up, caught Steve before he fell, helped him back over to the bed, then went over to rummage in the scattered suitcases before tossing Steve a pair of sweats.

"They know," Steve said.

Neal paused, head bowed.

"They'll be after us." Steve was exhausted, still, but the tired truth spilled from him. "They won't stop. They'll come after us until --"

"No." Neal raised his head. "They won't."

For a long moment, the two stared at each other.

"I hope you're right," Steve said.

Fanfic100 #007: Days

2006-02-27T05:14:07Z

this takes place after the events started in the first 2 parts...like I said, I don't know where it's going, just enjoy the ride.
-- cpv

----------------------

"You little shit," Ross said.

Steve said nothing, only curled up against the edge of the bed, not looking at Ross, not looking at anyone. Days. It had been only 2 days ago, and too much had happened, too much he didn't want to see, to know. It had been him. He couldn't deny it, couldn't...

"It was you," Ross said. "Your damn fault. They're after us because of your fuckin' shit. Because of that kid --"

"No," Neal said quietly, heavily, and startled, Steve raised his head to stare. Neal was standing center of the room, arms crossed, trembling so hard he could barely stand.

"No what?" Ross said.

"It wasn't him," Neal said. "Me. It was me."

"Neal," Steve whispered, "no."

"Fuck!" Neal fell to his knees in front of Steve, and his eyes mirrored the hell Steve had rolling inside. "What the fuck do you call it? I knew it. I knew. I fucked up, and you --"

"No," Steve said. "Not you. Both of us."

Neal bowed his head.

"Both of you," Ross said flatly.

"Feds are after him," Gregg said then, his voice harsh, and Steve flinched. "I say we throw the little bastard to them and forget him."

But Ross was still staring at Steve. Steve couldn't meet the gaze.

"And Aynsley?" Ross said.

That did it, two quiet words that narrowed the entire world and dropped into the rolling hell of his mind, forcing it up and out. Staring at the floor, Steve felt his eyes burn, and, to his horror, felt hot dampness leak from his eyes, trickle down his cheeks, and he couldn't stop it, couldn't control it.

"Dead," Neal whispered.

It pulled Steve's gaze up, blurry and damp, to see the same expression on Neal's face, lost, despairing, wanting to curl up somewhere and hide and never come out again...

"Fuck," Ross said, still flat, resigned.

"That's it?" Gregg snapped. "That's all? 'Fuck'?"

Ross thrust himself up from the chair, his arms wide, taking in Steve, Neal, the room, the world. "What the hell do you want me to say?"

"You throw him," Neal said quietly, "and I go."

"You're just a kid," Gregg said. "Running off your goddamn mouth. You're not going to do shit --"

Neal stood up, stood there, fists bunched, staring Gregg down. And somehow, Steve got his feet under him, pushed himself up, staggered to stand just behind Neal.

"Go on," Steve said, feeling his throat tighten, hearing his voice shake, not caring. "Throw me to the Feds. Do it. Get it over with."

Gregg was glaring, his mouth closed tight.

"It won't -- it won't bring Aynsley back," Steve said. "He's dead. God-fuckin'-dammit, Gregg, he needed to die. He -- he --" Steve stopped, swallowed, still seeing it, still seeing Aynes on that table, pleading and staring and sliced wide open....

"Needed," Gregg said.

Steve forced calm back into his voice. "It won't do jack. The Feds'll still come after you. Day after day, they'll be watching. They won't stop. Complicity. You were harboring. Whatever the fuck they call it. They'll find out about Neal."

"And about you," Neal said, quietly, to Gregg. "And Ross."

"What the fuck are you --" Ross said, and then fell silent.

Silence.

"You're crazy," Gregg said.

Neal said nothing.

Fanfic100 #002: Middles

2006-02-05T08:02:37Z

Steve stared up, unable to look away. It was tall, too thin, smooth featureless grey skin, its mouth stretched to bare a hint of tooth, glinting and sharp. Caught between it and the stack of heavy amps at his back, Steve couldn't move, frozen, a whimper mewling up from his throat. It moved closer and reached down with a graceful, elongated finger to stroke the side of Steve's face.

A rush of heat swept through him. His limbs relaxed, went limp. He stared up at the grey face and its glinting, sharp grin, staring without any thought, any feeling...

There was a sharp, short, shock of noise. The creature's head exploded.

The heat dropped away, the sudden chill sucking the air from his lungs. Then, only then, gasping and heaving air, did Steve realize that there was another creature, standing over Neal and holding the guitarist's face gently between its own elongated hands, and Neal was staring up at the creature with no expression, eyes blank, mouth open. The creature was turning, towards the noise, even as the noise repeated, even as the creature staggered back, collapsing to its knees as circles of dark dampness blossomed on its torso.

Gunshot...?!

That jolted Steve up, scrambling to his feet and hauling Neal with him, no other thought other than get the fuck away. Neal staggered, stumbled into a run alongside him, both of them tripping over each other until they made it around the corner of the hospitality trailer, far back of the stage. Fear, shock, nausea, all caught up, and Steve fell to his knees, breath heaving, retching.

"Oh god." Neal collapsed against the corrugated steel of the trailer. "Oh christ. Oh fuckin' christ..." The younger man was trembling, eyes closed, panting, gulping air.

"We..." Steve swallowed hard, hearing the high tension in his voice, feeling his throat close around the words.

...the long, graceful finger, slick and stroking down his face...

He looked up, his fists clenched, swallowed the memory down. He wanted to freak. He wanted to go find a quiet corner and get stoned out of his mind and just shake. But Neal was watching him. The two stared at each other, and Steve knew, knew, that if he freaked...

I'll never live it down.

If he lived at all. He closed his eyes, forced himself to take a deep breath.

"Oh god," Neal whispered, and Steve opened his eyes to stare at the guitarist. Neal shoved himself away from the trailer. "The others."

Jesus. Steve knew the rest of the band had been hanging around the stage, but... "We gotta get out of here. The cops --"

The guitarist turned, and Steve halted at the look on his face.

"You're crazy," Steve said. "You can't seriously be thinking--"

Neal turned away, stumbled, back towards the stage. Steve braced himself to his feet, staggered after the guitarist.

...of all the fuckin' bands, I get in with the kid who wants to play superman...

"Neal!" A shout, panicked, high-pitched.

They both turned, just as Ross barreled into both of them, tripped, stumbled, was caught just before he could go sprawling into the dirt. The bassist was shaking so hard that he could barely stand, and for a moment, he clung to both of them, suspended between and hanging from their shoulders until he got his feet back under him.

"Aynes," Ross gasped, his voice spiraling up. "They got him. Grabbed and split and vanished and oh fuckin' christ..."

Steve couldn't move, shock and fear smothering him. They. But Neal had Ross by the shoulders, shaking him.

"Gregg. Where's Gregg?"

Ross only stared, wide-eyed.

"Dammit, Ross!" Neal shook the bassist again, harder. "Where. Is. Gregg?!"

But Steve saw Ross's stare and twisted to look; it wasn't at them, it was...

...oh god...

Tall. Grey. Silent. Two of...them...stood there, just at the other corner of the trailer, watching the musicians. Something, some base, trembling instinct, pulled Steve's head around, the other direction, to see three more standing at the other side. Bracketed. Caught. His gasp pulled the others into turning; he heard Ross moan, and Neal curse, and in that moment, Steve saw it, past...them. The tunnels, ramps down to the lockers in the stadium.

...through the stadium, the parking lot, the buses...

"Lockers!" he shouted, shoving Ross hard, and Neal after him, stumbling into a run on their heels. But then something hit the ground at their feet, and he tripped, stumbled into Ross...

The air exploded.

Steve landed hard on his side, the impact driving the breath from him. Fighting for air, just one small breath, any air, any breath, he squinted up, saw Ross struggling to his hands and knees just a few feet away, and beyond Ross, Neal lay curled, unmoving.

The grey ones moved up, silent, pacing. Steve couldn't move, wheezing, struggling to get his hands under him. His body didn't want to work, didn't want to move, and he could only watch as one of them stopped at Neal, reached down, lifted...

Neal's face was bloody, but he fought weakly against the grip, his eyes wide and staring, meeting Steve's gaze for just an instant before the air turned blue and imploded.

Neal and the thing were gone.

Steve choked, fighting for air, even as it sunk in that the things were coming towards him, stepping past Ross, ignoring the bassist completely, as if Ross didn't exist. Steve stared up, into the grey, featureless face, at the elongated hands that were reaching for him...

There was light, red, sharp, cutting. It flew over his head, smacked hard into the creature, which stumbled back, still silent, still grey. Before Steve fully registered that, something else whirred around and over his head, and a small figure leaped past him, landing to stand between him and the creatures. One of the creatures tried to move past her, ignoring her as they did Ross --

The figure lashed out, a long wooden staff in its hand. There was a sound, like a melon crushed against pavement, and the creature fell, its head split and oozing grey and black matter onto the grass.

Whoever it was in front of him gestured sharply with its left hand, and suddenly the air turned alive, liquid, a glistening surface between him and the creatures. Whatever it was holding Steve snapped; he started to scramble up, to his feet.

"Don't move," the figure said, without turning.

Chick. She's a goddam chick.

"Well?" The figure said to the creatures, defiant and angry between him and those grey faces. "Make up your mind, assholes. I haven't got all day..."