girl, you better hoof it.

brewed by: @luckletting​ brewing for: @everyone ... spill the tea babes

“God, yeah. They’re so annoying... like, as if we don’t get our asses handed to us enough already. It’s like being asked to work overtime at the end of your shift, y’know?” she says in hushed irritation, as if the prospect of having to snag her nails on dismantling a cursed fetish in order to survive was a begrudgingly accepted inconvenience. Their casual and somewhat careless conversation isn’t overshadowed by their careful demeanor, her footsteps treading on the grass with a subdued rustle. Fear is a far-off inevitability when she starts trials at someone else’s side, and Quentin’s simple question encourages her to help navigate their path with a well-worn ease.           Her stare scans each shrouded corner they pass, eyes prying for that indicative glimmer to emanate from a disguised crevice. Soon, each step she takes quickens with impatience, boredom fuelling her to find what they seek -- primarily for the sake of achieving their intended goal. She slows into a less determined pace, however, when a question crosses her mind and immediately leaves her mouth, speaking in a queit address, “So, Quentin, would you rather have to find a little skull guy or...  watch a movie with your parents and it has a super awkward sex scene?”            Kate’s attention span for astute observation of their surroundings was expiring the longer they sifted around brick walls, replaced by the restless need for entertainment and, most of all, genuine curiosity to know his answer. She looks at him, ignorant to any sign their stroll could be impeded upon, as if they owned the space they were walking through, free from the threat of assault or harm. Oblivious; she was always the one who orbited too close to the sun, not even realising it was hanging in the sky before she looked directly into its yellow heat and burned a red halo into the whites of her eyes.

Progress in this trial was impossible, the churning of the generator’s engine short-fusing every few seconds -- any effort they made, even with the additional aid of Kate’s toolbox, was for nought. Her jaw clenched each time her fingers were singed by that telltale spark from the machinery, curses dying on her tongue in suppressed mutterings. If not for Quentin’s presence, she would have fallen prey to her frustration and kicked the generator until her toes went crooked in her boots, matching his own grief that she hears voiced to her left.            “You’re tellin’ me...” She looks at him and heaves a heavy sigh. Then, rising from knees sodden with damp grass to her feet, says, “C’mon, we gotta find one of those, uh... little skull guys. Show ‘em who’s boss.”

Both sides stand equal in ego but her self-assurance isn’t solidifed by any weapon. There isn’t the deceptive equality in a flashlight and even if she had a gun she never learned to shoot, never equipped to control something that kills for its own sole sake. Her hands are empty, shaped by six-string fret boards and microphones wired to sternum-rattling speakers. Only cowards wielded subjugation through harm and came out of the beating thinking they were all that. Some kind of fallacy where anyone was expendable as long as the perpetrator was untouchable.            She expects him to lack her exact conditions of conviction, glancing between his face and the hooked blade hanging from his grip. Getting a read on someone who was made of wood was as easy as it sounds, as conclusive as trying to rationalise the motivation of a tree by talking to it. So self-consuming is this concern that the pelt of a stone, fired from his hand towards her face, has her blindsided. Gasping, she raises her arms to shield herself but it’s too late, the rock collides with her wincing cheek, hitting its mark with a blunt, bruising force.           “No fair!” she protests, much like a child whose playmate has broken the rules of a game. Retaliating, she looks down and grabs the first retrievable object that crosses her vision. The compressed walls of crushed metal offer a range of options; tetanus-ridden plates of steel, dented tire rims and -- if luck was on her side -- a disposed exhaust pipe that could swing a heavy arc between them and force him to take a step back. But it was by hapless chance that Kate grabbed what she did due to its bright blink of artifical colour: an empty Coca-Cola can.            Always one to make do with what little she has, she bites her lip, arm bending back behind her head before she catapults the can at him. Breath-stilling anticipation that her aim may be accurate and hit her aggressor supercedes any satisfaction in hurting him.

@voidvoyeur ( michael. this bitch empty!! suburban gothic. only sexy when being stabbed / shot / set on fire / incapacitated / injured / locked in a basement ).