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rainbowfic2015-10-30 06:58 pm
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2015-10-30 06:58 pm
Prism 7, Cloudy Gray
Name: starphotographs
Story: Universe B
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Rainbow color for October), Miniature Collection, Saturation
Characters: Milo
Colors: Prism 7 (indigo), Cloudy Gray
Word Count: 1,000ish
Rating: PG(-13?)
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Life measured in physical changes.
Note: It’s pretty self-explanatory, actually!
Metal-Morphosis
accompany
I pulled us out before they could pull us apart again.
I had to.
And it kind of surprised me, that no one questioned if we had anywhere to go.
The answer, of course, is no, we don't.
But it'll come right. I just got a job. A good job, at the refinery out in Iron Hills.
For now, we sleep sitting up in subway terminals, heads mashed together. Sometimes, my jacket gets covered in hair that isn't mine.
Kit's hair is like fine brass wire. Mine is dark and limp.
But, somehow, people always know we're related.
carry
Every day, I come home exhausted, but at least I get to lie on a warm floor.
It's ten of us in a one-bedroom apartment with no landlord, but at least it isn't a subway terminal. Someone tripped over my head last night, sure, but it still feels pretty private, in comparison. And yeah, people sneeze in my face and eat off my plate, but, after eight years of orphanages, that's just life.
And granted, it's no place to raise a kid, but hell, where is?
The next place won't be any better.
But, there will be a next place.
multiply
A little over half a month in, my legs start to hurt. Then my back.
And then I notice my hair.
Same dull not-black most of the way up, then grey-blue at the roots.
I'd read something about this. The cobalt particles work their way into the follicles; get built into the hair.
Your job becomes part of you, at the atomic level.
The blue stripe widens. The original color gets hacked off, inch by inch.
I resign myself to being 99.9% Milo, 00.1% Other.
I don't have a choice.
It's part of me now.
classify
There's something wrong with me.
I don't know what it is, only that it's wrong.
At first, I thought I had a cold, and I guess that explained things.
For about a month.
Then I started waking up in the middle of the night, soggy and disoriented.
And then the blood started.
Just a few red streaks in the dirty grey, like I was gagging up billions of microscopic sawblades, that buzzed through my insides and tore them to pieces.
All this, too, has become part of me.
I look at myself, and see nothing but metal and blood.
empty
I cut my hair in front of the mirror, and just like that, I'm not who I used to be.
I've lost one more way to keep time.
You could look at me and think I've been this forever. The way I, under the artificial lights, couldn't tell you if it was night or day.
History is slipping away from me. I work; I sleep. I work again.
I strive to emulate my former self.
Like I'm not a blue-grey pile of metallic dust. Like my lungs aren't rusting out.
And I'm the only one who knows I'm failing.
rectify
I've become an empty vessel, but at least I'm someone's vessel to the other side.
He can't know that, as much as I'm flying him to the stars, I'm also driving myself to the scrapyard.
He can't know I've already been stripped.
The meat is being carved out of my chest. My hair looks like some weird new alloy. I don't even fill my own clothes anymore.
There's so little left. So little of it is original.
I hardly remember it: what I was like as a real person.
But, he can't know that.
Not until I make things right.
lay
They give me drugs made to save someone else.
I'm kind of like the guy who tasted the food before they gave it to the king.
The pill that doesn't do anything. The pill that starts to clear my lungs, but makes me throw up so many times that they need to run a tube through my hand and fill me back up. The pill that really doesn't do anything, because I'm the control this time around. And all the rest.
They all blur together.
I've been here a long time.
Long enough to see brown at the roots.
defy
For the past year, I've been part of a story where I die at the end.
I didn't think to question it. I'd deteriorate, I'd lead my brother into the escape pod, and then, after however long, I'd die.
Then there got to be a point where I very well could die, but my death would be superfluous.
And now, they're telling me that I'm not dying anymore.
There's a new ending somewhere, and I can't imagine it.
All I can do is let him put the mask over my face, and start carving out what’s left of my death.
play
These days, I'm not really sure who or what I am.
The metal in my hair is almost half grown out. My red scars make it look like I've been taken apart and put back together. Big chunks of me are missing on the inside; lungs and guts. Sometimes, I still spit blood in the sink.
I feel half-formed, midway between something and something else.
I look more like my old self, but I've never felt further from anyone I've ever been.
So I've decided to embrace it. To wake up every day, and see how far I can get.
mollify
Maybe I'll always be a half-formed thing. Chopped-up and put together again.
And maybe that's just how I want to be.
You can't add on to what's already complete.
Maybe original components are overrated.
I'm metal and blood, and the magnetic dust that keeps me out of MRI machines, and the red gaps inside me, and the scar I got when I was still adjusting to the gravity and wiped out on the sidewalk.
Tomorrow, I might be some other things, too.
I decide I won't let history slip away again.
I put the scissors down by the sink.
starphotographs Story: Universe B
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Rainbow color for October), Miniature Collection, Saturation
Characters: Milo
Colors: Prism 7 (indigo), Cloudy Gray
Word Count: 1,000ish
Rating: PG(-13?)
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Life measured in physical changes.
Note: It’s pretty self-explanatory, actually!
accompany
I pulled us out before they could pull us apart again.
I had to.
And it kind of surprised me, that no one questioned if we had anywhere to go.
The answer, of course, is no, we don't.
But it'll come right. I just got a job. A good job, at the refinery out in Iron Hills.
For now, we sleep sitting up in subway terminals, heads mashed together. Sometimes, my jacket gets covered in hair that isn't mine.
Kit's hair is like fine brass wire. Mine is dark and limp.
But, somehow, people always know we're related.
carry
Every day, I come home exhausted, but at least I get to lie on a warm floor.
It's ten of us in a one-bedroom apartment with no landlord, but at least it isn't a subway terminal. Someone tripped over my head last night, sure, but it still feels pretty private, in comparison. And yeah, people sneeze in my face and eat off my plate, but, after eight years of orphanages, that's just life.
And granted, it's no place to raise a kid, but hell, where is?
The next place won't be any better.
But, there will be a next place.
multiply
A little over half a month in, my legs start to hurt. Then my back.
And then I notice my hair.
Same dull not-black most of the way up, then grey-blue at the roots.
I'd read something about this. The cobalt particles work their way into the follicles; get built into the hair.
Your job becomes part of you, at the atomic level.
The blue stripe widens. The original color gets hacked off, inch by inch.
I resign myself to being 99.9% Milo, 00.1% Other.
I don't have a choice.
It's part of me now.
classify
There's something wrong with me.
I don't know what it is, only that it's wrong.
At first, I thought I had a cold, and I guess that explained things.
For about a month.
Then I started waking up in the middle of the night, soggy and disoriented.
And then the blood started.
Just a few red streaks in the dirty grey, like I was gagging up billions of microscopic sawblades, that buzzed through my insides and tore them to pieces.
All this, too, has become part of me.
I look at myself, and see nothing but metal and blood.
empty
I cut my hair in front of the mirror, and just like that, I'm not who I used to be.
I've lost one more way to keep time.
You could look at me and think I've been this forever. The way I, under the artificial lights, couldn't tell you if it was night or day.
History is slipping away from me. I work; I sleep. I work again.
I strive to emulate my former self.
Like I'm not a blue-grey pile of metallic dust. Like my lungs aren't rusting out.
And I'm the only one who knows I'm failing.
rectify
I've become an empty vessel, but at least I'm someone's vessel to the other side.
He can't know that, as much as I'm flying him to the stars, I'm also driving myself to the scrapyard.
He can't know I've already been stripped.
The meat is being carved out of my chest. My hair looks like some weird new alloy. I don't even fill my own clothes anymore.
There's so little left. So little of it is original.
I hardly remember it: what I was like as a real person.
But, he can't know that.
Not until I make things right.
lay
They give me drugs made to save someone else.
I'm kind of like the guy who tasted the food before they gave it to the king.
The pill that doesn't do anything. The pill that starts to clear my lungs, but makes me throw up so many times that they need to run a tube through my hand and fill me back up. The pill that really doesn't do anything, because I'm the control this time around. And all the rest.
They all blur together.
I've been here a long time.
Long enough to see brown at the roots.
defy
For the past year, I've been part of a story where I die at the end.
I didn't think to question it. I'd deteriorate, I'd lead my brother into the escape pod, and then, after however long, I'd die.
Then there got to be a point where I very well could die, but my death would be superfluous.
And now, they're telling me that I'm not dying anymore.
There's a new ending somewhere, and I can't imagine it.
All I can do is let him put the mask over my face, and start carving out what’s left of my death.
play
These days, I'm not really sure who or what I am.
The metal in my hair is almost half grown out. My red scars make it look like I've been taken apart and put back together. Big chunks of me are missing on the inside; lungs and guts. Sometimes, I still spit blood in the sink.
I feel half-formed, midway between something and something else.
I look more like my old self, but I've never felt further from anyone I've ever been.
So I've decided to embrace it. To wake up every day, and see how far I can get.
mollify
Maybe I'll always be a half-formed thing. Chopped-up and put together again.
And maybe that's just how I want to be.
You can't add on to what's already complete.
Maybe original components are overrated.
I'm metal and blood, and the magnetic dust that keeps me out of MRI machines, and the red gaps inside me, and the scar I got when I was still adjusting to the gravity and wiped out on the sidewalk.
Tomorrow, I might be some other things, too.
I decide I won't let history slip away again.
I put the scissors down by the sink.
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