Well Aimed Chaos (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whitemage) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2013-08-05 03:51 am
whitemage) wrote in rainbowfic2013-08-05 03:51 am
Bone #13; Fever Red #21, Angel Cake #4
Name: Ardy
Piece/Story: Hello There, the Angel of my Nightmares/Blood Saint
Colors: Bone 13 (scattered remains); Fever Red 21 (dizzy); Angel Cake 4 (Holy)
Styles/Supplies: Graffiti (Fever Red and Bone for Summer of Whump)
Word Count: 1363
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13 - gore; No warnings that I know of
Notes: Luke is slightly different in "real life" from the flawless, sage older brother Annie sees in him.
“What a mess.” Luke kept his tone calm and professional, though his innards were churning.
Charred, severed body parts hung from the trees like Hell’s Christmas ornaments. The smoldering wreckage of the building appeared to be ground zero, the one wall left standing within it lined with shadows crouched in horror--carbon remains of former human beings.
Luke could feel his eyes getting misty. Human life was already so precious, so fragile, and--
“How long until the federal investigators take back the scene from us?” The even, steady voice at his elbow was pure and honest in its detachment. He rocked back on his heels to turn, watching Anabiel closely.
Her hair was a burning red and brilliant gold like fire. Her eyes were an average dark brown that easily drew a person in, but they seemed to have a flickering light behind the pupils where most humans simply had a comfortable point of black. They gave her the air of a pulsing nebula of light trapped in hollow flesh like a jail. The effect of imprisonment was amplified by the severe iron jewelry she wore: a collar, bracelets, and anklets each with a golden cross bezel and ecclesiastical admonishments. Luke imagined she was often in frustrated pain. There was a stiff grace in her walk, like someone trying to maintain their dignity stepping on a field of broken glass.
She would often fall taciturn with something that may have been objective study but may also have been grave disapproval at the mortal foibles around her. Her sense of humor was dry, and soliciting her advice would often lead to a Socratic seminar on the matter that made him feel trolled.
He did his best as a man of God to have sympathy for her, but she was just so creepy. Plain uncanny. Being around her for too long brought Luke back to the deep scrupulosity he had wrestled with as a youth. He was sure he was doing everything wrong, and just waiting for punishment.
He cleared his throat, “Is Father Andrew close by?”
Flies were starting to crowd the scene like a plague. The wind picked up, as if trying to drive the filth away. Luke had to sidestep a leg tumbling from a tree and landing with a dull thud. The knee was helpfully folded so he could see into the circle of torn flesh at the thigh. Looking away only drew him instantly to the leg’s mate yards away.
“Does this pertain to my question?” She blinked, and Luke could swear there was a blaze he saw in her face that reminded him of the seraphim purifying Isaiah with a hot coal. Along the nape of his neck, every follicle stood at attention--something the strewn carnage and stench of sulphur and mangled bodies hadn’t been able to do.
“... Not really.” He cleared his throat, glancing at anything but her. “As soon as we determine the cause. If it’s demonic, it’s really not their jurisdiction, but--”
“It is.” Her voice was quiet, but the certainty in it drowned out both the background noise and Luke’s thoughts.
“I thought so, yes. Finding evidence is the tricky part, though.” He gave her an apologetic smile.
She left the gesture unreturned. “Why do you need evidence when there’s truth?”
“The problem is, humans cannot rely on intuitive truths that don’t bear empirical fruit.” Back to priestly professionalism.
It looked like Anabiel smirked, but her tone never changed. “Says the priest with a faith-based theology.”
“Yes, well...” Luke continued to meander through reasons why he fixated on Anabiel so much--Annie would have a glorious, poetic reason if he called her, but explaining Anabiel took giving her too much detail about his “real” job. She still thought the reformatory school was still nothing more than a school.
Anabiel had used the opportunity of his wandering thoughts to move into the wreckage, stark white among the ruins.
Stooping over an area in the floor near the center of the parish office, she brushed away ash to gaze at the melted floor. Soon, as if time was reversing itself, a whole square molded together, revealing a complex circular pattern on it.
Luke rushed over to join her. “What’s that?”
Now she was smiling. He had been wondering what that was like. Oh, heavenly host, it was creepier than her regular expression. “Your demon...”
She placed her hands in the center of the sigil, closing her eyes. Light poured into the pattern, followed by snarling and growling that filled the air. Reality itself seemed to waver--to ripple like fabric--and Luke threw both his arms out to steady himself as the world continued to swirl like a carnival ride.
From somewhere else at the site came a rumbling exclamation: “Damn it, lass! I said not to touch anything!”
Anabiel sat back on her haunches, steepling her hands. Her eyes never left the sigil. Father Andrew Taskill was on them in a blustering flash, his towering form casting a shadow that made the circle glow. He sheathed a pair of gladii--the man was always covered in sharp, pointy objects, seemingly producing them from thin air sometimes. Luke crouched down carefully as he did, both examining Anabiel’s find.
Father Andrew shook his head and swore under his breath. Luke found himself still trying to focus, his head feeling horrifically light.
Anabiel leaned back, cocking her head to look at him. She seemed entirely normal and at ease when he was close. “Vienna?”
“Aye. Vienna.” Except when he decided to be oddly solemn, like now.
“Should we call her?”
“Let’s make the feds bugger off and we’ll discuss it with the bishop.”
Their shorthand conversations and cohesive teamwork sometimes made Luke uncomfortable. While his mentor always made sure to include Luke, it was still odd seeing two people no one could get close to practically reading each others’ minds. He wondered how long they had been working together.
“Tell them they can help clean up, though!” Luke laughed weakly, fairly serious about not wanting to spend the day pushing a wheelbarrow of pieces and parts. He ruefully nudged a pile of ash, sneezing when it blew back in his face.
The two left him to document the evidence while they dealt with the red tape. He snapped a few shots with his camera. Stopping to sketch a copy of the sigil in his notebook, Luke gazed into the circle with a mind distant and crammed full. He felt an intense sadness. Annie’s face flashed in his mind, and he could swear he heard her calling his name.
A second later, his phone rang. Not even pulling off his bloody gloves, he rushed to answer. “Annie?”
“It’s Vidisha.” The voice was staticky due to technology and strained due to stress. “Annie, she... we got her in okay. They’re saying... what’s wrong... I don’t....”
The call sharpened, and he heard the painfully familiar noise of the E.D. in the background. His heart sank: he had hoped her stint from four weeks ago wouldn’t be repeated so soon. Especially not when he was hundreds of miles away. “What did they say it was?”
Long pause. “Dr. Patel says she wants to talk to you in person--or some member of the family. But Annie won’t let me call your parents.”
His nervous walking while on the phone had brought him right up to Anabiel without him realizing it. Luke jumped, his head going fuzzy and scattered again.
“The dead can wait. Your duty is to the living first.”
It was horrifically embarrassing to realize his misty eyes weren’t caused by the ash at the crime scene. “And what about the dying?”
This smile of hers was less creepy, and nearly empathetic. One warm hand she laid on his cheek, urging him to lower his face. With the other, she wiped away his tears. Luke felt the sensation of ethereal peace in chaos, like he stood in the eye of a great storm. Everything was clear again, even if it was still unknown.
“Don’t jump to conclusions.” Came the flat reply, popping the illusion as she gently smacked his forehead with the heel of her palm.
Piece/Story: Hello There, the Angel of my Nightmares/Blood Saint
Colors: Bone 13 (scattered remains); Fever Red 21 (dizzy); Angel Cake 4 (Holy)
Styles/Supplies: Graffiti (Fever Red and Bone for Summer of Whump)
Word Count: 1363
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13 - gore; No warnings that I know of
Notes: Luke is slightly different in "real life" from the flawless, sage older brother Annie sees in him.
“What a mess.” Luke kept his tone calm and professional, though his innards were churning.
Charred, severed body parts hung from the trees like Hell’s Christmas ornaments. The smoldering wreckage of the building appeared to be ground zero, the one wall left standing within it lined with shadows crouched in horror--carbon remains of former human beings.
Luke could feel his eyes getting misty. Human life was already so precious, so fragile, and--
“How long until the federal investigators take back the scene from us?” The even, steady voice at his elbow was pure and honest in its detachment. He rocked back on his heels to turn, watching Anabiel closely.
Her hair was a burning red and brilliant gold like fire. Her eyes were an average dark brown that easily drew a person in, but they seemed to have a flickering light behind the pupils where most humans simply had a comfortable point of black. They gave her the air of a pulsing nebula of light trapped in hollow flesh like a jail. The effect of imprisonment was amplified by the severe iron jewelry she wore: a collar, bracelets, and anklets each with a golden cross bezel and ecclesiastical admonishments. Luke imagined she was often in frustrated pain. There was a stiff grace in her walk, like someone trying to maintain their dignity stepping on a field of broken glass.
She would often fall taciturn with something that may have been objective study but may also have been grave disapproval at the mortal foibles around her. Her sense of humor was dry, and soliciting her advice would often lead to a Socratic seminar on the matter that made him feel trolled.
He did his best as a man of God to have sympathy for her, but she was just so creepy. Plain uncanny. Being around her for too long brought Luke back to the deep scrupulosity he had wrestled with as a youth. He was sure he was doing everything wrong, and just waiting for punishment.
He cleared his throat, “Is Father Andrew close by?”
Flies were starting to crowd the scene like a plague. The wind picked up, as if trying to drive the filth away. Luke had to sidestep a leg tumbling from a tree and landing with a dull thud. The knee was helpfully folded so he could see into the circle of torn flesh at the thigh. Looking away only drew him instantly to the leg’s mate yards away.
“Does this pertain to my question?” She blinked, and Luke could swear there was a blaze he saw in her face that reminded him of the seraphim purifying Isaiah with a hot coal. Along the nape of his neck, every follicle stood at attention--something the strewn carnage and stench of sulphur and mangled bodies hadn’t been able to do.
“... Not really.” He cleared his throat, glancing at anything but her. “As soon as we determine the cause. If it’s demonic, it’s really not their jurisdiction, but--”
“It is.” Her voice was quiet, but the certainty in it drowned out both the background noise and Luke’s thoughts.
“I thought so, yes. Finding evidence is the tricky part, though.” He gave her an apologetic smile.
She left the gesture unreturned. “Why do you need evidence when there’s truth?”
“The problem is, humans cannot rely on intuitive truths that don’t bear empirical fruit.” Back to priestly professionalism.
It looked like Anabiel smirked, but her tone never changed. “Says the priest with a faith-based theology.”
“Yes, well...” Luke continued to meander through reasons why he fixated on Anabiel so much--Annie would have a glorious, poetic reason if he called her, but explaining Anabiel took giving her too much detail about his “real” job. She still thought the reformatory school was still nothing more than a school.
Anabiel had used the opportunity of his wandering thoughts to move into the wreckage, stark white among the ruins.
Stooping over an area in the floor near the center of the parish office, she brushed away ash to gaze at the melted floor. Soon, as if time was reversing itself, a whole square molded together, revealing a complex circular pattern on it.
Luke rushed over to join her. “What’s that?”
Now she was smiling. He had been wondering what that was like. Oh, heavenly host, it was creepier than her regular expression. “Your demon...”
She placed her hands in the center of the sigil, closing her eyes. Light poured into the pattern, followed by snarling and growling that filled the air. Reality itself seemed to waver--to ripple like fabric--and Luke threw both his arms out to steady himself as the world continued to swirl like a carnival ride.
From somewhere else at the site came a rumbling exclamation: “Damn it, lass! I said not to touch anything!”
Anabiel sat back on her haunches, steepling her hands. Her eyes never left the sigil. Father Andrew Taskill was on them in a blustering flash, his towering form casting a shadow that made the circle glow. He sheathed a pair of gladii--the man was always covered in sharp, pointy objects, seemingly producing them from thin air sometimes. Luke crouched down carefully as he did, both examining Anabiel’s find.
Father Andrew shook his head and swore under his breath. Luke found himself still trying to focus, his head feeling horrifically light.
Anabiel leaned back, cocking her head to look at him. She seemed entirely normal and at ease when he was close. “Vienna?”
“Aye. Vienna.” Except when he decided to be oddly solemn, like now.
“Should we call her?”
“Let’s make the feds bugger off and we’ll discuss it with the bishop.”
Their shorthand conversations and cohesive teamwork sometimes made Luke uncomfortable. While his mentor always made sure to include Luke, it was still odd seeing two people no one could get close to practically reading each others’ minds. He wondered how long they had been working together.
“Tell them they can help clean up, though!” Luke laughed weakly, fairly serious about not wanting to spend the day pushing a wheelbarrow of pieces and parts. He ruefully nudged a pile of ash, sneezing when it blew back in his face.
The two left him to document the evidence while they dealt with the red tape. He snapped a few shots with his camera. Stopping to sketch a copy of the sigil in his notebook, Luke gazed into the circle with a mind distant and crammed full. He felt an intense sadness. Annie’s face flashed in his mind, and he could swear he heard her calling his name.
A second later, his phone rang. Not even pulling off his bloody gloves, he rushed to answer. “Annie?”
“It’s Vidisha.” The voice was staticky due to technology and strained due to stress. “Annie, she... we got her in okay. They’re saying... what’s wrong... I don’t....”
The call sharpened, and he heard the painfully familiar noise of the E.D. in the background. His heart sank: he had hoped her stint from four weeks ago wouldn’t be repeated so soon. Especially not when he was hundreds of miles away. “What did they say it was?”
Long pause. “Dr. Patel says she wants to talk to you in person--or some member of the family. But Annie won’t let me call your parents.”
His nervous walking while on the phone had brought him right up to Anabiel without him realizing it. Luke jumped, his head going fuzzy and scattered again.
“The dead can wait. Your duty is to the living first.”
It was horrifically embarrassing to realize his misty eyes weren’t caused by the ash at the crime scene. “And what about the dying?”
This smile of hers was less creepy, and nearly empathetic. One warm hand she laid on his cheek, urging him to lower his face. With the other, she wiped away his tears. Luke felt the sensation of ethereal peace in chaos, like he stood in the eye of a great storm. Everything was clear again, even if it was still unknown.
“Don’t jump to conclusions.” Came the flat reply, popping the illusion as she gently smacked his forehead with the heel of her palm.