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greenling) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2013-10-21 05:11 am
greenling) wrote in rainbowfic2013-10-21 05:11 am
Lawn Green #9/Camo Green #9
Name: Greenling
Story: All Great Things
Colors: Lawn Green #9 (Vacation)/Camo Green #9 (Attack)
Supplies and Styles: Bichrome (Lawn Green/Camo Green)
Word Count: 1,570
Rating: PG-13ish.
Warnings: Mild profanity and fighting.
Summary: More strange and terrible things happen to Dmitry.
Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated.
Soft light came in through the windows, illuminating what it could in the dismal little apartment, its rays broken up by strips of gold-aged glass tape that held the panes in their flaking wooden frames. The air conditioner sticking out from the far end (itself held in place by a much newer application of half a roll of duct tape) growled, hummed, and sputtered in arrhythmic succession, failing to do much for the air on the near end. Dmitry lay on his bed, more or less, with one leg dangling off into the floor and the other hanging off the end, his body splayed catty-corner across it.
He stared with his brow furrowed at the phone sitting on his chest. Since the last couple of weeks of classes, he'd been trying not to think about all the "weird periods" he'd been having: the lost time; the memories of things he'd said and done that didn't match up with external evidence; the waves of of weird, intense emotion. He had succeeded, up until the blackouts started. Everything else was, if not normal, at least something that hung around in the back of his mind as Stuff That Happens, a question in his personal neurology that no one had come up with an answer to, something that might be exacerbated by the stress of graduation and thesis defense. At first he'd been worried- it was hard not to be- but that couldn't last long. Now that he had the time to deal with it, he was pissed.
Practically speaking, he should call his mother and set up an appointment with a doctor. That was what he had planned to do, in theory, and why he was staring at his phone. He knew exactly how the conversation would go: first, he'd dance around the subject and act casual until she put on her Mom Voice and told him he was coming home. They'd argue about whether he was all right to drive back by himself, given the circumstances, and compromise when she would suggest making Uncle Tristan do it. They would work out the question of what to do with his lease, he'd check the paperwork to see if subletting was allowed, and she'd find a reason to get him to live at home for the rest of the summer, promising that he could leave and go back wherever he wanted if he was still all right by the end of it. She would probably keep her word.
It wasn't as if he were afraid or something...
Dmitry's phone vibrated on his chest, cutting off his train of thought. He flipped it open and hit the button to bring up the text message. It was from the school's emergency text system, which made him furrow his brow and sit up on one elbow.
It read, more or less:
Incidents of violent assault have been reported in the areas around campus. Police request that students and staff be alert and travel in groups. Further information will be forwarded when available.
He growled under his breath; that was enough of an excuse not to make a decision right that second. He needed groceries, for the night if nothing else, and it was getting pretty late in the afternoon. Granted, it probably wasn't anything to be worried about, much less anything he needed to be concerned about; he was tall, broad-shouldered, and angry-looking, and unless this was something seriously weird and people were running around with knives, he could defend himself well enough.
(He had to admit, having a good reason to punch someone sounded pretty relaxing.)
Grumbling nothing in particular to himself, he slid out of bed and went to check what exactly was left in the kitchen.
--
The streets were quiet that evening; the buzz of the few cars in the background blended in with the muttering of small crowds out enjoying the slow summer sunset. They hovered around outer stairwells and sat in chairs dragged out onto sidewalks, their eyes wary and tense. For the most part, Dmitry ignored them as he trudged forward, his mind focused on keeping his feet moving and in the right direction. His focus was sharp, but everything else was blurred around the edges, like he was running on espresso. Hell, maybe he was imagining the aggressive looks, the children being called to their mothers, all the subtle little things that added up to something wrong. He was certainly in the right mood for it.
It had been too late to catch a ride to the nicer grocery, and the local one was something around a quarter mile from his apartment. The people inside had been chattier for the most part, weary-friendly, talking about the boiling humidity and how busy they'd been. There had been a guy inside, clearly a college kid, talking about the attacks and making jokes about stocking up for a zombie apocalypse; the idea of good taste had clearly never occurred to him. It occured to Dmitry that with things this tense, if he had gone outside before the morning or talked to anybody he would've heard of this already, but he'd pulled a couple of favors at the library to let him keep out some books 'til the end of the week and he didn't want to waste his time. Either way, he found it hard to care at the moment, hauling a backpack full of groceries down the street, including a five-pound bag of rice and a half-gallon of milk.
Dmitry noticed then that his focus had wavered. He was standing in a quiet one-way side street, one wrong left turn from where he'd been going; just a couple of blocks, but enough to wonder what he'd been thinking. He tensed again, hands balling up, and turned around to leave.
There was a guy behind him, an old guy in a trucker hat with a blank look on his face. Dmitry paused abruptly, realizing the guy was staring at him as he walked. He took a few slow, deliberate steps forward; his unblinking gaze was a little disturbing. He took a couple of steps out of the guy's way, but his gaze followed.
"Uh, hey?" Dmitry said. If this guy didn't look like he was seventy...
Time seemed to slow down as the old man approached. Dmitry backed up another step, then two, almost up against the wall of one building. When he was in arm's reach, the man stopped for a fraction of a moment, then lunged. His jaws opened wide, flashing a set of inhumanly sharp, yellowed teeth; in a blaze of unthinking adrenaline, Dmitry darted to the side and gave the man a solid punch in the jaw.
The man staggered back for a moment, his hand going to his jaw, then lunged again with strange speed. Dmitry barely had time to register how much that had hurt his hand before he ducked backwards again, half-tripping over a stacked pile of driftwood and wet branches. Just as the man lunged again, he snatched up a piece knocked out of the pile; swatting blindly at him, he tried to ward the man away without hitting him again. For a moment, it seemed to work, or at least he backed off- Dmitry took a moment to breathe. His instincts and his anger warred against confusion and doubt of his own senses. He recognized that if he didn't run soon, one or the other would win, and neither was a good idea.
He heard snarling from behind him, the same direction the guy had come from.
Something tackled him from behind, a guy dressed in a frat hoodie. He barely managed to keep his feet, kicking him off for only a moment before a third one grabbed him. They started to surround him- probably only three of them- he tried to yank himself away, but their grips were iron. He barely escaped the first one, ripping his shirt and scratching off a layer of skin. He felt teeth sink into his shoulder and screamed as he fell.
His backpack made a wet crunch that sent a vibration up his spine, slowing his reactions furthur. He dimly registered one ripping at his pantsleg with its teeth, but his attention focused on the one- the old man, bloody-mouthed- falling on top of him, teeth aimed for his throat. It took all Dmitry's remaining strength to hold him back, the man's face now clearly contorted, his eyes the same bright yellow as his teeth. The remaining one went for his wounded arm.
A high-pitched sound shocked Dmitry into losing his grip, and in a split second, something changed. The man was off him- slammed into a wall by a shadowy figure. Shadowy- its features were blurred by a darkness that seemed to literally cling to it even on a well-lit street, and Dmitry could only watch as it tore a gouge in the side of the old woman, the third one. The newcomer seemed to have caught their attention well enough, whatever it was; its features seemed to shift under the shadows, seeming more or less human by the moment, more or slightly less huge. Hoodie sunk its teeth deep into the thing's side, and it howled with pain, shocking Dmitry back out of complacence. He scrambled to his feet, hoping, for the first time, that he was dreaming.
After that, he just ran.
Story: All Great Things
Colors: Lawn Green #9 (Vacation)/Camo Green #9 (Attack)
Supplies and Styles: Bichrome (Lawn Green/Camo Green)
Word Count: 1,570
Rating: PG-13ish.
Warnings: Mild profanity and fighting.
Summary: More strange and terrible things happen to Dmitry.
Comments, criticism, and questions are all appreciated.
Soft light came in through the windows, illuminating what it could in the dismal little apartment, its rays broken up by strips of gold-aged glass tape that held the panes in their flaking wooden frames. The air conditioner sticking out from the far end (itself held in place by a much newer application of half a roll of duct tape) growled, hummed, and sputtered in arrhythmic succession, failing to do much for the air on the near end. Dmitry lay on his bed, more or less, with one leg dangling off into the floor and the other hanging off the end, his body splayed catty-corner across it.
He stared with his brow furrowed at the phone sitting on his chest. Since the last couple of weeks of classes, he'd been trying not to think about all the "weird periods" he'd been having: the lost time; the memories of things he'd said and done that didn't match up with external evidence; the waves of of weird, intense emotion. He had succeeded, up until the blackouts started. Everything else was, if not normal, at least something that hung around in the back of his mind as Stuff That Happens, a question in his personal neurology that no one had come up with an answer to, something that might be exacerbated by the stress of graduation and thesis defense. At first he'd been worried- it was hard not to be- but that couldn't last long. Now that he had the time to deal with it, he was pissed.
Practically speaking, he should call his mother and set up an appointment with a doctor. That was what he had planned to do, in theory, and why he was staring at his phone. He knew exactly how the conversation would go: first, he'd dance around the subject and act casual until she put on her Mom Voice and told him he was coming home. They'd argue about whether he was all right to drive back by himself, given the circumstances, and compromise when she would suggest making Uncle Tristan do it. They would work out the question of what to do with his lease, he'd check the paperwork to see if subletting was allowed, and she'd find a reason to get him to live at home for the rest of the summer, promising that he could leave and go back wherever he wanted if he was still all right by the end of it. She would probably keep her word.
It wasn't as if he were afraid or something...
Dmitry's phone vibrated on his chest, cutting off his train of thought. He flipped it open and hit the button to bring up the text message. It was from the school's emergency text system, which made him furrow his brow and sit up on one elbow.
It read, more or less:
Incidents of violent assault have been reported in the areas around campus. Police request that students and staff be alert and travel in groups. Further information will be forwarded when available.
He growled under his breath; that was enough of an excuse not to make a decision right that second. He needed groceries, for the night if nothing else, and it was getting pretty late in the afternoon. Granted, it probably wasn't anything to be worried about, much less anything he needed to be concerned about; he was tall, broad-shouldered, and angry-looking, and unless this was something seriously weird and people were running around with knives, he could defend himself well enough.
(He had to admit, having a good reason to punch someone sounded pretty relaxing.)
Grumbling nothing in particular to himself, he slid out of bed and went to check what exactly was left in the kitchen.
--
The streets were quiet that evening; the buzz of the few cars in the background blended in with the muttering of small crowds out enjoying the slow summer sunset. They hovered around outer stairwells and sat in chairs dragged out onto sidewalks, their eyes wary and tense. For the most part, Dmitry ignored them as he trudged forward, his mind focused on keeping his feet moving and in the right direction. His focus was sharp, but everything else was blurred around the edges, like he was running on espresso. Hell, maybe he was imagining the aggressive looks, the children being called to their mothers, all the subtle little things that added up to something wrong. He was certainly in the right mood for it.
It had been too late to catch a ride to the nicer grocery, and the local one was something around a quarter mile from his apartment. The people inside had been chattier for the most part, weary-friendly, talking about the boiling humidity and how busy they'd been. There had been a guy inside, clearly a college kid, talking about the attacks and making jokes about stocking up for a zombie apocalypse; the idea of good taste had clearly never occurred to him. It occured to Dmitry that with things this tense, if he had gone outside before the morning or talked to anybody he would've heard of this already, but he'd pulled a couple of favors at the library to let him keep out some books 'til the end of the week and he didn't want to waste his time. Either way, he found it hard to care at the moment, hauling a backpack full of groceries down the street, including a five-pound bag of rice and a half-gallon of milk.
Dmitry noticed then that his focus had wavered. He was standing in a quiet one-way side street, one wrong left turn from where he'd been going; just a couple of blocks, but enough to wonder what he'd been thinking. He tensed again, hands balling up, and turned around to leave.
There was a guy behind him, an old guy in a trucker hat with a blank look on his face. Dmitry paused abruptly, realizing the guy was staring at him as he walked. He took a few slow, deliberate steps forward; his unblinking gaze was a little disturbing. He took a couple of steps out of the guy's way, but his gaze followed.
"Uh, hey?" Dmitry said. If this guy didn't look like he was seventy...
Time seemed to slow down as the old man approached. Dmitry backed up another step, then two, almost up against the wall of one building. When he was in arm's reach, the man stopped for a fraction of a moment, then lunged. His jaws opened wide, flashing a set of inhumanly sharp, yellowed teeth; in a blaze of unthinking adrenaline, Dmitry darted to the side and gave the man a solid punch in the jaw.
The man staggered back for a moment, his hand going to his jaw, then lunged again with strange speed. Dmitry barely had time to register how much that had hurt his hand before he ducked backwards again, half-tripping over a stacked pile of driftwood and wet branches. Just as the man lunged again, he snatched up a piece knocked out of the pile; swatting blindly at him, he tried to ward the man away without hitting him again. For a moment, it seemed to work, or at least he backed off- Dmitry took a moment to breathe. His instincts and his anger warred against confusion and doubt of his own senses. He recognized that if he didn't run soon, one or the other would win, and neither was a good idea.
He heard snarling from behind him, the same direction the guy had come from.
Something tackled him from behind, a guy dressed in a frat hoodie. He barely managed to keep his feet, kicking him off for only a moment before a third one grabbed him. They started to surround him- probably only three of them- he tried to yank himself away, but their grips were iron. He barely escaped the first one, ripping his shirt and scratching off a layer of skin. He felt teeth sink into his shoulder and screamed as he fell.
His backpack made a wet crunch that sent a vibration up his spine, slowing his reactions furthur. He dimly registered one ripping at his pantsleg with its teeth, but his attention focused on the one- the old man, bloody-mouthed- falling on top of him, teeth aimed for his throat. It took all Dmitry's remaining strength to hold him back, the man's face now clearly contorted, his eyes the same bright yellow as his teeth. The remaining one went for his wounded arm.
A high-pitched sound shocked Dmitry into losing his grip, and in a split second, something changed. The man was off him- slammed into a wall by a shadowy figure. Shadowy- its features were blurred by a darkness that seemed to literally cling to it even on a well-lit street, and Dmitry could only watch as it tore a gouge in the side of the old woman, the third one. The newcomer seemed to have caught their attention well enough, whatever it was; its features seemed to shift under the shadows, seeming more or less human by the moment, more or slightly less huge. Hoodie sunk its teeth deep into the thing's side, and it howled with pain, shocking Dmitry back out of complacence. He scrambled to his feet, hoping, for the first time, that he was dreaming.
After that, he just ran.
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Thankfully this one is being nicer to me than the other story and might not take as long...
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