violetviolxnce

I have moved off of a sideblog and to a proper blog over at violetviolxnce. 

She’d been rummaging through the supply closet that night trying to find some paintball rounds when the hallway went dark. Power outage? The mild concern spiked into panic when she heard someone’s approach. The aggressive words didn’t do much to help either. At that point she was already busy assessing her exits, the bullets she was rifling through shoved randomly back onto the shelf. She had her board, for what it was worth.

“I didn’t know,” her voice is cautious, hesitant. She doesn’t recognize the woman, doesn’t know if her question was rhetorical. Does she even want a reply?

“They sort of just told me I was going to be working with two other companies.” There was a little more, obviously. Vague language talking about construction, demolition, and communication. But she hadn’t planned out what to say, and the drag of the axe cuts her words short.

There isn’t much offense taken from the harsh words. Some of the mercenaries used to call her useless, and that’d been more damaging because they were colleagues she looked up to. Satellite doesn’t know this lady, and is more concerned with an appearance of a stranger and the immediate danger of a weapon.

She is afraid, but her logic is taking over again. The pitch darkness of the base makes it impossible to navigate on her board. It’s too narrow indoors to go very fast, and without sight she’d surely crash. She knows the layout well enough to run alright though, if she keeps a hand on the wall. But outrunning a very confident threatening lady didn’t sound easy. So instead she holds her board to her chest with two hands, one finger tickling the ‘on’ switch. Axes are metal, right? An idea is forming in her head. Satellite would be the first to admit it’s a huge stretch and pretty stupid on top of that.

‘But then,’ she reasons a little helplessly, ‘I might not have to do anything. She might just be a normal lady who doesn’t actually want to kill me.’ She adjusts her grip, not allowing her nerves to spike. Until something else undoubtedly not good occurs to her.

‘Wait, does power outage mean re-spawn is off?’

The thought that the creature approaching Satellite is normal would be dashed once she passes beneath the ominous aura of an emergency light, its lazy spin washing the figure in orange ochre. 

A petite figure, dressing in black boots and a black leotard, leather harness holding two guns close to her ribs. 

But it’s not that that makes her seem strange in this place. It’s the mask. The jutting gold teeth of some sort of demon, the red-rimmed, bulging porcelain eyes and horns pulling forward like a raging bull. Only the thin gap between gold teeth allow her to be heard, and even then, it’s not very clear. 

The revenant’s ax screams across the concrete behind her, dragging again the floor until she heaves it up into her hands, skulking closer to the other woman.

“I didn’t know,” she mocks in a sing-song voice. “How someone as ignorant as you hasn’t been hacked to pieces yet is a small wonder.”

There’s a beat where her form seems to flicker, the orange light washing over her in the dark. When it spins around a second later, the Brutal is no longer there, vanished.

Until, of course, her face is next to Satellite’s, staring down the side of her head, the dead eyes of her mask boring a hole into her temple.

She doesn’t really mind having to get them again, because she enjoys the pain of getting them, and she can certainly afford to, but it does take up a lot of time, and that’s irritating.

His lack of reaction to her scars probably speaks volumes about just what he’s seen. Even the graphic depiction of her head blown open only has him biting his lip in sympathy. He decides he’s going to believe her, and maybe that’s foolish of him, but he doesn’t want to second guess everything she says. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” It’s sincere, which is probably quite shocking from somebody like him. He knows how fake fashion designers can be, and maybe that’s part of why he keeps many of them at arms length. 

“I can offer you no advice, but as I said, my door is always open and my kettle is always here. Even if I’m with a client, you can use whatever room is free if you need some time.” 

He’s going to make her look terrifying, he’s decided. Of course she’ll look stunning, and sleek, but he wants her to scare anyone that might do her more harm. 

Shannon pulls back, tsking softly. “I don’t need the sympathy.” 

She stands, gesturing to the mask on the table. “You can keep it for now. When should I come back?” If she’s appreciative of Teddy’s kindness, she isn’t showing it. After all, the revenant feels very little, and that includes being touched by his hospitality.

This is business.

“And I assume I owe you some sort of deposit.”

She paces around the table between them, briefly hovering over the perfectly-kept man. There’s something unwavering in her gaze, something calculated but not cold. Not exactly. Stoic, perhaps. 

Shannon looks away.