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| Predator and Prey; Solo(?) with Cay | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Oct 7 2009, 06:11 PM (276 Views) | |
| Harper | Oct 7 2009, 06:11 PM Post #1 |
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Dogmeat
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((Leaving it open for others to join if they want, because I'm indecisive. Wanted to write some Cay, lol, and I'm trying to change up the diction of the writing itself a bit. As always, critique always welcome.)) The baby moon was a small sliver of light above him. It was dark, and that made him happy. All the stars were out. Like freckles, he thought. Like her freckles. Dark. He liked dark. Light hurt his eyes, still. Sun was so much brighter than the lights, anyway. But dark was nice - comforting - like a blanket pulled up around him. Dark was home, just like the outside. Cay thought maybe someone had understood. Door was unlocked, so he went. There had been a knife on the table that they used to cut the food for him, and now the knife was in his belt. Sometimes the moon's brightness ran across the blade. Bright. Only thing out of place. The stupid shoes they made him wear were still back in his room. Maybe they thought he needed to go sing her another goodbye. Maybe they thought he was out looking for her. Maybe it didn't matter. They could think what they would think, because that was what they did. Cay felt. He was already taking in the way the dirt slid beneath his hands and feet, the way the wind wove through his hair. It was good - it was home. But he had escaped from Augusta for a very different reason. Things were wrong. Things were wrong in ways he could fix, in ways that would make them love him again and give him the little slices of skin fried in brahmin lard that were his favourite. He knew what the smell should be, he knew how the night sang out, but something was disturbing it. A person, probably - a person who was silly enough to sleep at night, out on the ground. He promised himself that he had to go see. Maybe he would take a little. Maybe he would kill. If they were raiders - well, that was why he had the knife. He would saw off one of their heads and bring it back to show, and the hockey mask would gleam bright-white in the daylight, and they would love him again, they would love him so much for protecting them, just like they had done before. It was a good plan. The moon had gone to from his shoulder to above his head by the time he was where he knew things had gone wrong. It smelled different - smelled new - and the dirt whispered at him with each footprint still there. There were no guard-dogs, and he was disappointed. He still remembered the first time he had gone out, what a joy it had been to see the raider's guard-dogs, to sing them a song and bow at them and wiggle his tailbone: Let's play a game, let's play a fun game, he said. We'll play chase me, chase me, come see the smell of blood and eat... But there were no dogs today. A little sad. But easier. Smell of one - maybe two. So much humanity, it was hard to tell. It stank - they all stank - and he curled his lip at it. But there was food. Some reward, at least. Makeshift tent - couldn't see the bedrolls in it, couldn't see the people in it. That would come later. A little bit of ash - there had been a fire for warmth. Typical. But maybe experienced. Maybe raiders, he hoped, just maybe. He took in each breath in little puppyish sniffs, letting the scents come in his nose and not linger too long to seem normal to him. Food, recently cooked - or opened, he could not tell. He moved slowly, each step calculated, precise on the dirt - silent, near-silent at least. Little rustle of his clothes, maybe, little sound of his breath. Near-silent. Moonlight was small but enough. He liked the dark, he could see all he needed. The little tent was calm - sleeping, he could hear a snore. The sound made him curl his lip. Stupid, stupid, not even quiet when asleep. Too easy. He could take his time. Enough time to explore. There was a little crate of supplies, and a opened bag. Smelled good. Little rustle of bag, but he was slow - gentle - could take his time, after all. The colorful label on the box reminded him of what the town-people ate sometimes, what they got excited about. Smelled good enough to take, he thought. Good even if there was nothing else. He pulled open the box, popped a little in his mouth: dried Dandy Boy apples. Good. Snoring still continued, so it was time enough that he could enjoy himself. Still dark. So Cay sat back on his haunches, sucking at the piece of dried apple as he crouched in the dirt of the little camp. Other than the slow and steady pace of his breathing and the soft smacking of his eating, he was perfectly still. It almost seemed as if, like a cat's, his eyes reflected the light as he stared unflinchingly at the tent. |
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| Harper | Oct 20 2009, 08:48 PM Post #2 |
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Dogmeat
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(( Let's have a little musical accompaniment - http://www.last.fm/music/Jesse+Cook/_/Toca+Orilla )) Cay smacked his teeth. Apples were getting gummy and sticky, could feel one bit prying away from his back molar slowly, slowly, like meat off a bone. It made him hungrier. Not chewy enough. Needed something to chew... A low rumble worked up from his throat, and he rose up to crawl on the ground. Still snoring. Stupid, stupid! Lazy, fat, stupid - but not worth killing yet. Just time to see what he could find in the camp. No good food. No steak, no meat. He wanted meat slick between his teeth and chewy and bloody. Just remembering the metal-bright taste of blood was making his mouth water. Meat would come later, he reminded himself. He would bring back the head and they would be so happy and pleased with him, maybe they would even let him keep the brahmin-bones to suck out the marrow. Unless he wasn't worth killing. The possibility made his stomach clench. Only apples would not be good enough. Moonlight flashed on his blade, caught his eye, he spun around a moment chasing his own tail before relaxing, looking at every little thing in the camp. He could lie. Lying was easy. Could cut his own arm with the blade, look sad, look brave. Then they would give him so much meat and be proud of him. His nostrils flared, thinking about this before letting a low grunt of thought bubble up from his throat. Still the snoring. Would be an easy kill - very easy kill. Knife to the throat, one stab, wouldn't even wake up. But there was a tug at his chest, and he grit his teeth. Didn't seem right. He could see Her frowning at him, looking upset. Didn't want to make Her upset, not again. Not as if she would know - but still, he reminded himself, but still. So there would have to be proof. Moonlight was almost too bright, now. But he was impatient. Time to act. Little whisper of cloth as he lifted up the tent edge, little grunt as the man - only one - paused in his snoring. Cay studied his face, frowning, before leaning in. Sniffing, sniffing - like he could smell the sin on the other man. Dirt and musk and sweat. Nothing incriminating, yet. But there was a bag beside him... Gently, he prodded, letting the bag topple over. The man grunted. Cay drew in a sharp breath. Gleaming bone-white, there was the hockey mask, the spiked shoulder pads. Then the baseball bat beside him... It was all Cay needed to see. He would not get to die with just one stroke. He would not get to die in his sleep. Cay's eyes had gone wide, crazed, manic, planning as he shifted around to straddle the man. He grunted and shifted in his sleep as Cay leaned in closer, and closer. As Cay's hot breath hit his neck, he mumbled something addressed to 'Laurie'. Cay did not pay attention. Every movement slow, every movement precise as he slid a hand back to the knife at his belt - closer, now, he was just about to wake up - a little more... Cay leaned back just enough to see. "Laurie? Goddamn, woman, we can wait..." Eyes opened, focused, found Cay. Blinked. "...until..." Slow, Cay jeered mentally. Slow, stupid, lazy, fat! Thought he was dreaming, maybe - still wasn't reaching for the baseball bat, but no matter, he had kicked it away. But there came the fear, pouring into his eyes, making his lips part and gape as his eyelids flared open wider, as his face went a little paler. It was what Cay had been waiting for. Fear. Fear so good he could taste it on his teeth as he leaned in to bite hard at the man's neck. That was how you killed - he had learned as a pup. Bite hard, bite hard, shake, bite, bite, teeth slick, rush of metallic in his mouth as the blood came, harder, don't get distracted by gurgled scream, bite harder until it's dead. And as he bit he stabbed down, again and again, down at the man's chest. A surprising amount of resistance but it did not stop him. He threw his whole weight into each stab. Moonlight made the blood glint on the upswing. The man thrashed, but it was useless, wet and sticky and warm pouring out onto his shirt. Pulling away, he snorted out, taking the time to lick his lips. Tasted good, like a rare brahmin steak. Smelled good too. Red was all over his face, he knew, like war-paint. After a moment, he reached up to pull at the corner of liquid, pulling it up his cheek to his cheekbone on each side. War-paint for the warrior. A laugh bubbled up out of him, and he let it blossom fully, dull and wheezy in the darkness. By the time he made it back to Augusta, it was nearly noon. He had licked most of the blood off of his face, except for ruddy smears on his cheekbones. Nobody asked about them, just like nobody asked why the raider's hockey mask was tied on crookedly. But he was lumbering upright, and he brought spoils of war, some parody of Perseus carrying Medusa's head, and he acted apologetic for leaving and proud to protect them. That was the most important thing. That night he got half a femur from the latest brahmin roast. He gnawed on it, sucking out the marrow, giving little throaty moan-sighs at the taste and reflecting on how it had all been worth it. ((D-D-Done~)) |
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| Harper | Oct 22 2009, 06:46 PM Post #3 |
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Dogmeat
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((Feenished :> Any critique would be adored... Cay is hard to write.)) |
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| Harper | Oct 23 2009, 10:44 AM Post #4 |
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Dogmeat
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((Hey look!![]() now with half-assed, done-in-15-minutes-ogod illustration! IT'S SO BAD I'M SORRY but I still like parts of it so you get it here)) |
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| Zilabus | Oct 24 2009, 02:30 PM Post #5 |
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Er'ry day I'm overseein'
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Sorry I took such time getting this done.
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Eli "Slim" Ambrose SPECIAL: 3, 9, 2, 7, 9, 3, 7 Level: 5 Bucket town reputation: -175 Equipment Weaponry: Molotov, Cherry bombs, Combat Knife, Laser pistol, Tack Mines, Smoke grenades, Syringes. Armor:Post-war suit Tattered leather jacket Inventory Homemade shotgun, Gumballs, Bedspread Mentats x3, Psycho x2, Jet x1, Wiskey x2, vodka 4 1/2 x Hides, 15 LSB dollars Appearance Caucasian Very tall, lanky, and slim, jet black hair in a greased into a subdued pompadore style. Dark eyes and a cleanshaven face. Brown Windowpane suit. Kelly "Featherweight" Capozzi | |
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