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peopleofthedas2010-12-11 07:37 am
bellaknoti) wrote in peopleofthedas2010-12-11 07:37 am
fanfic: Wings of the Storm Crow
Series: Wings of the Storm Crow
Title: Transformation (Chapter Six)
Rating: AO
Pairing: Lily/Zevran
Summary: Reaching out to my past is going to have unintended consequences; I can hear it coming like a freight train in the dark. It's time to explain to Zev exactly where I come from... before it comes crashing through the front door.
if some of my slang in this chapter and the next makes no sense to you, please say so. it all makes perfect sense to me, but i'm a little too close to the material. this is based on fact; very little has been changed... mostly the names of the not-so-innocent. everything else is truefax, folks. life on the street is not pretty.
Zev folds his arms over his chest, and his face has gone a little hard. I look back at him and give him my version of blank-face, a bland little smile, but I know my mask can't match his. “I'm going to go get dressed. Please, build up the fire so we can have some coffee; it will be a long night. I estimate we've got about two, maybe three hours before Stalker shows up... I’ll tell you everything. Just...” I drop the mask. “Stop looking at me like that. You didn't exactly tell me everything all at once, either.” I can't stand the way he's staring at me, like I’m suddenly not trustworthy, so I go to him, looking up at him. “Zev. Whatever you're thinking that is putting that look on your face, you're wrong. You and I were never in the same line of business, all right? I just... know people.”
He sighs and nods. “Va bene. Va bene, cara; go get dressed, then we will talk,” he says, waving me off.
I make my way back to the bedroom, feeling cold inside. Reaching out to my past is going to have unintended consequences; I can hear it coming like a freight train in the dark. I go clean up in the bathroom and brush my hair, looking myself in the eye in the mirror. It's time to put on my mask again. I have to be Falcon again, before Stalker gets here, because it is not Lily he knows.
I pull out my make-up kit and begin by paling my face. I pull out the kohl and stare at the pot for several long minutes. Picking up the brush, I roll it in the kohl and begin to draw the winged pattern on my forehead. I see Zev standing in the doorway as I begin to line my eyes, turning up at the outsides and down on the insides. I skip the crimson lipstick... the black too; I’m just not young enough to pull that off any more. Instead, I rub on a dark burgundy powder, staining my lips like blackberry juice. I colour in my eyelids with smoky greys and plums. In the end, I look like a different person. A person from twelve years ago.
A street kid named Falcon Phoenix.
I run a brush through my hair, pulling out all the tangles, and head for the closet. It's almost like a uniform, now. It's been folded and carefully stashed away, but I still have it. I pull out an old, battered black trench coat; the black top hat with the burgundy ribbons and the long, white scarf; a pair of black jump boots with parachute cord laces – after the first several pairs of laces broke, snagged, ripped, or fell apart at the worst possible moment, I learned that paracord never fails.
I put on a bra and panties, and wriggle into a pair of tight black jeans. In the back of my sock drawer, I have some sleeves that were made by cutting the crotch and the toes out of a pair of lace nylons; I pull them on over my head and tuck the waistband under my bra, stick my thumbs through the holes in the edges of the sleeves. I run my fingers over the cut edges, where I rolled it under and sewed it with the only thing I had at the time: red embroidery floss.
I put on the old t-shirt that has a picture of Robert Smith on the front. In a hatbox under my bed, there is a plain, black leather dog collar; I put it on. In the pocket of my trench coat, I find a battered pack of clove cigarettes, still sealed, and stare at them for a long time. Djarum Blacks. I sit down and put some socks on, then slip my feet into the boots. I wrap the laces around my ankles, tie them off with a square knot, and tuck the ends into the sides, the tongue flopping forward at the ankle and the tops curling aside.
I carry the hat and the coat into the living room, and Zev follows me, curious. I lay them on a chair, and grab a small box off the mantel-piece. I sit down, staring at my hands, then open the box. Inside is a very specific set of rings and a silver ankh necklace. Falcon's jewellery. I put them on, assuming a persona I haven't worn in twelve years.
I jump in randomly, in the middle, starting with the first thing that comes to mind. “I heard Rooster was killed for lack of my being there to watch his back. We made this rule, once upon a time, after I got kidnapped, that none of us go anywhere alone. We always went in pairs. I was his partner. But... I cut and ran one night. I had to, I had to save my own skin. He was safe with the other boys at the house, but I was his second. He was our leader, and I was the Girl. The Wendy. I took care of them. I stitched them up and kept them sane, and they did their best to protect me. You have to understand, we were all kids at the time. I was sixteen, seventeen. They all ranged between fifteen and nineteen. We were starving, living on the fringes, barely surviving.”
My tone begins to take on a more clipped cadence as I fall into an old speech pattern with the donning of the rings. I am shrugging on my old self just like my old coat, as I stand up and put it on, along with my hat, automatic gestures returning to me as I straighten out the tails, flipping my hair out of the way. I suddenly have the urge to walk. Falcon was constantly in motion. I find my old, fingerless black gloves in one of my pockets and put them on. Holding my arms out from my sides, I say, “This is Falcon Phoenix, and she is not Lily Maxwell. Until I take this off, I cannot be her. Not for a second. The game we are about right now is too dangerous. This is akin to if I went with you into Crow territory, though hopefully nowhere near as immediately dangerous. You must trust me here as surely as I would have to trust you there. We are clear, yes?”
He nods, and I nod back. “I will return to who I am supposed to be, later, but for now, you must treat me as a different person, someone you have not yet met, someone not your girl, because I am not the same now, and I might need your help later to take it off, because... well, I bet you know: it's easier to pick up than it is to put down, isn't it.” I sigh and roll my shoulders as he gives me an appraising look that tells me he's seeing me in a new light. “Now. I must smell like Falcon.” I cross the room and go straight out the front door, my legs automatically reverting to my old ground-eating stride.
I go outside and open the pack of cigarettes, pulling out a long, black stick. I put it in my mouth and light it with the lighter still sitting in the coat, breathing in the bitter-sweet, age-harshened clove smoke. My hands stop shaking on the second drag, as the nicotine hits my system, and I smile, feeling the wolfish grin of my youth returning.
I tuck the smoke into the corner of my mouth and fish out a little vial of oil from another pocket. It's still there: my own brand of perfume, concocted on the fly from a custom perfumery long, long ago. Mostly vanilla, with coconut, musk, and amber, and then just two drops of orange and one drop of patchouli, to the whole bottle. Just a spice note. This is the scent of Falcon: Amarinth, coffee, and clove cigarettes, wind and rain and bootblack. I rub the oil onto the critical pulse-points – wrists, behind the ears, in the cleavage, right between my thighs – and then stash it back in the pocket. I run my oiled finger around the brim of my hat, another old habit, and smile to myself that I have done this, too, automatically.
I take a couple more drags off the smoke, then hand it to Zev. “It does not smell the same,” he comments, and I shake my head, blowing out the smoke.
“It's not. It's clove.” He takes a drag off it, then hands it back. He shakes his head, and I shrug. I am getting antsy. I take off down the path to the beach, restless, pacing, and circle the house four times before I run out of cigarette and have to stub it out in the ashtray on the front porch. The pack is tucked securely in my inside breast pocket. He cannot have it, not yet. I may need them to bribe Stalker. “Let's make the coffee,” I suggest. “These things take time, and coffee is part of the ritual, too.”
He nods, and we return to the warmth of the fire. He brews and I pace. This house is suddenly too confining. I need to be walking down a city street at top speed. I need to be headed to Beth's Cafe. I need to be on my way to the Hurricane. I need to be striding across Red Square or crashing through the brush at Ravenna Park. I need to be walking down University Way, I need to be on my way to Rocky Horror at the Admiral, I need to have connections that must be made before the night is out. I need to have information to pass on and deals to make, I need to make it to the parking lot at St. Mary's to catch Street Links for a sandwich and a cup of soup. I need to have children to protect from the night and wounds to stitch closed, I need whiskey in the dark and morose conjectures about our life expectancies. I need for Rooster to not be dead on my watch.
Now it's me rattling around the house like a caged tiger. But she's coming back, she is. Falcon Phoenix, the girl who will kick your fucking ass if you say anything racist, the girl who once took down two members of the Mexican Mafia single-handed because some culo started spouting bullshit about how he'd fucked me to his friends, and pissed off his girlfriend, and so she had to come cut a bitch, didn't she? Only I’m not so easy, and you don't bring a pissy little knife when everyone knows I’ve got a baseball bat and about twenty pounds of chains around my waist.
My chains.
I head for the bedroom abruptly, and Zev watches me stalk past. Rummaging around behind the dresser, I find the chains, stuffed in the corner when they fell off the top, ages ago. I wrap them around my waist, let them hang down my thigh. Then I look around and find my bat. I pick it up, swing it a few times. It's like an old friend in my hand, and I suddenly am her. The things I do for love. I reach into my underwear drawer, all the way to the back, and pull out the knife that goes on the side of my boot, on the inside, right next to my ankle, just behind the bone.
I stride out into the living room again, bat in hand, and I can tell, he can see, I’m a new animal. “Stalker will descend without warning. He will test me, test my defences. If you defend me, it will show my weakness. If I am weak, he will not help us.” I see him dart a glance out toward the beach, and I know what he's thinking. “I could go sit on the beach, and force him to approach me in the open, but that shows cowardice. It's too safe. I need to be able to defend my home.” I begin checking the windows in the house, locking all the doors. “It's true that it may be--” I glance at the clock, “--another hour or two before he arrives, but it's also true that he may send scouts.” I sit down again by the fire and pick up the cup he's poured for me.
“Who is this man to you?”
I take a deep breath. “That is a long story, really, but I’ll try to keep it brief.” He nods. “For many reasons, I was forced to leave home when I was sixteen. That would've been fine, except that here in my world, you're not considered an adult until you turn eighteen. There's no compromise, regardless of your skills. You can't rent a room, own any property, nothing like that, unless you're... well, noble, basically. We call them 'celebrities'. Anyway, what this meant for me was a hard existence on the streets of a large city, eating what scraps I could find and defending myself as well as I could.
“On the street, it's either kill or be killed, sometimes. In order to keep ourselves alive, we have to band together. There were six of us: all boys, save me. We were: Falcon, Rooster, Stalker, Mouse, Doc, and Grave. Rooster was our leader, and so named because of his bright red mohawk.” I gesture with my hands to show what that means. “He was brilliant, charismatic, kind, and protective, but he was also wicked-ass brutal when we were in trouble. Mouse was called that because he could make himself so small and quiet, no one would ever notice he was there. People forgot he was present, and would say or do things that they didn't intend for others to witness. Useful talent, that.
“Doc, he was very much into psychology, the science of the mind, and would study other people very carefully, determine their motives, their intentions, practically read their minds. He could tell you, without a doubt, whether someone was lying. He also had a vast knowledge of poisons, medicines, and plants. Grave... got his name because he tended to put people in one, when crossed. We get in a fight, it was Grave I wanted at my back. And Stalker... he could shadow anyone, and never be seen or heard. He could find out anything you wanted to know. He made us fake id's when we were kids, back when that kind of thing was still possible. Now, he knows how to manipulate the system so that he can get information he's not supposed to have, from government sources, and he can put information into them that's not supposed to be there, to create identities or fix things.
“Back when we were still a... uh...” I gesture, trying to come up with a word, beginning to pick up Falcon's tendency to finish sentences with her hands.
“Cell?” Zev offers.
I snap my fingers and point at him. “Right. Anyway, back when we were still together, his powers were not so great, but it was also a bit of an easier time. Things have changed drastically, and the game is much more dangerous. Still, Stalker owes me a life-debt. We had this rule: no one goes anywhere alone. I think I mentioned this.” He nods. “Before, it was each for themselves, and all for the group, but then, one night, I got kidnapped. I was gone for three days, and barely escaped with my life. I only made it out of there because the man holding me captive failed to notice that a spoon was missing from the plate of I-dare-not-think-what that he made me eat. I sawed at my bonds all night, while he slept. Before dawn had fully lit the sky, I bolted.
“The man followed me, and I was forced to run through the streets of the city completely naked, in the rain. I tore up my feet on broken glass and stone, and quickly hid inside a refuse bin to evade him. In the morning, it was Rooster who came to fetch me, after Stalker had determined my location. He gathered me up and carried me back to our squat – the house we were occupying illegally – and got me put back together.
“The man had taken my clothes; I lost my knives, my boots, everything. My boys, though, they took care of me. I spent a week laying there in the squat while my feet healed. They brought me bandages, new clothes. Grave gave me a knife.” I hold up the knife that clips on my boot and show it to him. It is all black, the blade matte black. I flick it open with practised ease, then flip it closed again and toss it to Zev. He turns it over in his hands, examining the latch. “Rooster spanged enough money to get me a pair of boots,” I say, gesturing to my feet.
“Spanged?” he echoes, and I duck my head. Another term of my old paradigm. He hands me back the knife, and I tuck it back in my boot.
“It's a shortening of the phrase 'spare change'. Basically, begging for coppers. Anyway, look: Doc's coat, Mouse's chains; Stalker got me the hat, said it made me look like Death.” I pause, realizing this is a cultural reference that will go over his head, and grab one of my Sandman books off the shelf. I flip through it, find a picture, and show him. “It's a story you might like, actually. You should read them, when you have the chance. Anyway, at the time, my hair was black, because I used to dye it.” I put the book back on the shelf. “They got me another pack, filled it, replaced the things that I had lost, as well as they could. I owed them my life. So, I set about discharging those debts.
“Doc was easy; I stitched up a gash in his leg that went all the way from the inside of his knee to the outside of his thigh,” I say, drawing a line diagonally across my own leg with my finger. “With very little to ease the pain. We had a bottle of whiskey, a needle, and some white thread. The whiskey went on the cut and down his throat, the rest was hours of careful stitching and tons of lost blood. In the end, I was the one who saved his life.
“Mouse got himself tangled with the police – the guard – and I provided him an alibi, said he was my lover, that I had been with him all night. I busted Grave out of a foster home... uh, like an orphanage situation, you know, easy for abuse to happen. He was the youngest of us, fifteen. Rooster, I was his backup when he went to do some negotiations with some of the Mexicans, and when it went south – you know, fell apart into violence – it was my bat took the teeth of the guy who almost sunk a knife in Rooster's neck.
“So me and the rest of the boys, we were square. But Stalker... Like I said, we were kids. He was the oldest of us, nineteen when I left. He was always taking on these jobs that would put him really close to danger, you know, straight into the lion's den. He took a government job, I don't know why. He was supposed to inform on some Skinheads who were running meth. Uh... Bunch of Nazi sympathisers, you know, and no hair. Meth's this drug that makes you really crazy, manic, tireless, obsessive, paranoid, make people hallucinate after a while. Nasty shit, highly addictive, rips people's lives apart, but very easy to manufacture, and once people are hooked into it, they will do just about anything, even murder their own children, to have more of it.”
I start bouncing my knees, getting agitated. “So, you can imagine, it's highly lucrative, you know, and these people protect it with vicious tenacity. Problem with it is that it fragments, it powders. Can't make it or carry it without getting it on you, in you, right, and so these fuckers were crazy, wild-eyed, and paranoid. Stalker, he wasn't equal to it, because these guys were so damned jumpy. He got in too deep. So, here's what I did.
“I was there the night he had a tail, one of these scary guys chasing him, you know, gonna knife him in the dark.” I rise, stalking back and forth. “Other thing about these guys is that they're highly distractable. Me, I’ve got dark hair, yeah, but the blue eyes and the pale skin's what they care about. So I swing myself out into his path, and I provide a distraction.
“Problem, though. My face is known. So I gotta talk fast, right. I say I’m doing a runner, I wanna change teams. He's the leader, you know, so I cosy up, acting scared: little girl needing protection, right.” I make doe eyes and simper, folding my hands under my chin as though I'm begging. “He's such a big, strong man. So handsome. So able to protect me from the people I’m about to turn traitor on. I’ve just been so confused, but ever since the night the Mexicans tried to kill us, I saw the light, and oh, won't you please help me.”
The act falls away just as quickly. “Only way to get Stalker out of there in one piece: I sacrificed myself. I let the guy take me under his wing, let him... take me...” I shudder at the memory, “...to seal the deal. I spent four days with him, biding my time, talking their talk and walking their walk, and not a damned thing my boys could do to bust me out of it.” Automatically, my fingers stray to my pocket, and I grab another cigarette out.
I go out the door, pacing across the porch, and he follows, standing in the doorway, watching
me. I light the smoke, gesturing with it as I speak. I start holding up the fingers of my free hand, one by one. “Destroyed my reputation. Put my own life in danger. Had to leave Rooster to hang out to dry against the Mexicans, which got him killed. Saved Stalker's life. Fled the street after, to keep from getting killed by the Sharps.” I glance at him, and translate: “Skin Heads Against Racial Prejudice. Bald anti-Nazi's. I was a Sharp turned traitor, you see. Had my head shaved, white walls, all the way around. Used to wear liberty spikes, 'fore Stalker got me the hat.” I motion with my hands, outlining the shape of that haircut, what the mohawk looked like when it was up.
“Dude never forgave me for it. Knew it was the only way out, right, knew I couldn't do anything else to save him, knew that anything less would've got us all killed. This way, I protected his life, and his identity. Skins never knew who it was'd been spying on 'em, and when I cut and ran, it didn't blow back on the rest of my boys. Problem, though. It was Doc and Grave, Stalker and Mouse, Rooster and me. When I took off, Rooster was flying solo. Never forgave Stalker for it, even though it's not technically his fault.” I stop abruptly, staring out into the night. All is quiet. I close my eyes and listen, but there's nothing but the surf.
I start pacing again. “So, I saved his life after he helped save mine; square. But, I destroyed my rep, had to fuck the enemy, lost Rooster, and was forced to flee, getting out on my own, no less, so that was four more. So I called it in when I got to Oly – next big city down, maybe hundred miles in between – had him contact some Sharps, so got me back for having to fuck the enemy just getting me a squat. Two was when he repaired my rep with them, telling them what I did to save him, and why, so rep for rep. Three, he took down the ring of Skins, probably ratted, so they didn't come after me for it, so safety for having to flee.
“Twelve years now, I never called in the fourth. Couldn't think of anything that'd make up for him making me lose my boy. Not like that.” I look at Zev. “But now, it's a life for a life. He made it so I lost Rooster, and now he's gonna make it so I can keep you. Final squaring. But first, I gotta prove that I’m not soft, because I have no doubt he knows what's been going down with me, since it's in the info that can be got from the cops. Police.” I shake my head and stub out the tag-end of the clove, then look up at him. “So now you know.”
He is quiet for a very long time, watching me pace and flip my Zippo between my fingers. At last, he asks, “Why is a show of strength necessary? Is it not enough that the debt is owed?”
I stop, looking at him. “No. 'Cause if I’m too soft, he'll think I’d roll on him, and what he does for me is going to put him in danger. He's gotta know that I’m not a rat, that I’m not so weak that my secrets can be had for easy coin. I gotta prove that I’m still Falcon, not some pussy little bitch can't keep her shit, gets pushed around by a fuckin' man. Fuck!”
Falcon would have murdered Tommy in his sleep, the first time he hit her. What happened? I don't know. I thought I loved him? I never said it, it's true...
After Dad died, I was a fucking wreck, that's what. I needed someone to lean on. I moved too many times, needed some place solid to land. Dad helped with that, and then he died, leaving me the house. Mom took off with some old, grizzled hippie, and so I’m here, left alone with Dad's ghost, wandering the house like a shell of myself, and there was Tommy to fill me up with his world. It was good, for a time... but in the end, it made me weak, and now here I am, wondering if Stalker is going to find me lesser, and call the debt paid by my toothlessness.
I do another lap around the house, and stop behind it, listening intently. I heard gravel. I flatten myself to the wall and creep back around to the front. Zev has disappeared. There is an extra shadow on the porch, and I see the glint of steel in the moonlight. Sloppy. I duck back around the corner and light another smoke. Keeping the smoke in one hand, I take my hat off, thrust it out at head-height, around the corner, really quick, and drop it. A knife goes whistling past to bury itself in the sand, straight through the space where my breast should have been. I’m just glad it misses my hat. I whip the chains off my waist and wrap them around my fist, letting the ends trail on the ground.
Time to play.
Title: Transformation (Chapter Six)
Rating: AO
Pairing: Lily/Zevran
Summary: Reaching out to my past is going to have unintended consequences; I can hear it coming like a freight train in the dark. It's time to explain to Zev exactly where I come from... before it comes crashing through the front door.
if some of my slang in this chapter and the next makes no sense to you, please say so. it all makes perfect sense to me, but i'm a little too close to the material. this is based on fact; very little has been changed... mostly the names of the not-so-innocent. everything else is truefax, folks. life on the street is not pretty.
Zev folds his arms over his chest, and his face has gone a little hard. I look back at him and give him my version of blank-face, a bland little smile, but I know my mask can't match his. “I'm going to go get dressed. Please, build up the fire so we can have some coffee; it will be a long night. I estimate we've got about two, maybe three hours before Stalker shows up... I’ll tell you everything. Just...” I drop the mask. “Stop looking at me like that. You didn't exactly tell me everything all at once, either.” I can't stand the way he's staring at me, like I’m suddenly not trustworthy, so I go to him, looking up at him. “Zev. Whatever you're thinking that is putting that look on your face, you're wrong. You and I were never in the same line of business, all right? I just... know people.”
He sighs and nods. “Va bene. Va bene, cara; go get dressed, then we will talk,” he says, waving me off.
I make my way back to the bedroom, feeling cold inside. Reaching out to my past is going to have unintended consequences; I can hear it coming like a freight train in the dark. I go clean up in the bathroom and brush my hair, looking myself in the eye in the mirror. It's time to put on my mask again. I have to be Falcon again, before Stalker gets here, because it is not Lily he knows.
I pull out my make-up kit and begin by paling my face. I pull out the kohl and stare at the pot for several long minutes. Picking up the brush, I roll it in the kohl and begin to draw the winged pattern on my forehead. I see Zev standing in the doorway as I begin to line my eyes, turning up at the outsides and down on the insides. I skip the crimson lipstick... the black too; I’m just not young enough to pull that off any more. Instead, I rub on a dark burgundy powder, staining my lips like blackberry juice. I colour in my eyelids with smoky greys and plums. In the end, I look like a different person. A person from twelve years ago.
A street kid named Falcon Phoenix.
I run a brush through my hair, pulling out all the tangles, and head for the closet. It's almost like a uniform, now. It's been folded and carefully stashed away, but I still have it. I pull out an old, battered black trench coat; the black top hat with the burgundy ribbons and the long, white scarf; a pair of black jump boots with parachute cord laces – after the first several pairs of laces broke, snagged, ripped, or fell apart at the worst possible moment, I learned that paracord never fails.
I put on a bra and panties, and wriggle into a pair of tight black jeans. In the back of my sock drawer, I have some sleeves that were made by cutting the crotch and the toes out of a pair of lace nylons; I pull them on over my head and tuck the waistband under my bra, stick my thumbs through the holes in the edges of the sleeves. I run my fingers over the cut edges, where I rolled it under and sewed it with the only thing I had at the time: red embroidery floss.
I put on the old t-shirt that has a picture of Robert Smith on the front. In a hatbox under my bed, there is a plain, black leather dog collar; I put it on. In the pocket of my trench coat, I find a battered pack of clove cigarettes, still sealed, and stare at them for a long time. Djarum Blacks. I sit down and put some socks on, then slip my feet into the boots. I wrap the laces around my ankles, tie them off with a square knot, and tuck the ends into the sides, the tongue flopping forward at the ankle and the tops curling aside.
I carry the hat and the coat into the living room, and Zev follows me, curious. I lay them on a chair, and grab a small box off the mantel-piece. I sit down, staring at my hands, then open the box. Inside is a very specific set of rings and a silver ankh necklace. Falcon's jewellery. I put them on, assuming a persona I haven't worn in twelve years.
I jump in randomly, in the middle, starting with the first thing that comes to mind. “I heard Rooster was killed for lack of my being there to watch his back. We made this rule, once upon a time, after I got kidnapped, that none of us go anywhere alone. We always went in pairs. I was his partner. But... I cut and ran one night. I had to, I had to save my own skin. He was safe with the other boys at the house, but I was his second. He was our leader, and I was the Girl. The Wendy. I took care of them. I stitched them up and kept them sane, and they did their best to protect me. You have to understand, we were all kids at the time. I was sixteen, seventeen. They all ranged between fifteen and nineteen. We were starving, living on the fringes, barely surviving.”
My tone begins to take on a more clipped cadence as I fall into an old speech pattern with the donning of the rings. I am shrugging on my old self just like my old coat, as I stand up and put it on, along with my hat, automatic gestures returning to me as I straighten out the tails, flipping my hair out of the way. I suddenly have the urge to walk. Falcon was constantly in motion. I find my old, fingerless black gloves in one of my pockets and put them on. Holding my arms out from my sides, I say, “This is Falcon Phoenix, and she is not Lily Maxwell. Until I take this off, I cannot be her. Not for a second. The game we are about right now is too dangerous. This is akin to if I went with you into Crow territory, though hopefully nowhere near as immediately dangerous. You must trust me here as surely as I would have to trust you there. We are clear, yes?”
He nods, and I nod back. “I will return to who I am supposed to be, later, but for now, you must treat me as a different person, someone you have not yet met, someone not your girl, because I am not the same now, and I might need your help later to take it off, because... well, I bet you know: it's easier to pick up than it is to put down, isn't it.” I sigh and roll my shoulders as he gives me an appraising look that tells me he's seeing me in a new light. “Now. I must smell like Falcon.” I cross the room and go straight out the front door, my legs automatically reverting to my old ground-eating stride.
I go outside and open the pack of cigarettes, pulling out a long, black stick. I put it in my mouth and light it with the lighter still sitting in the coat, breathing in the bitter-sweet, age-harshened clove smoke. My hands stop shaking on the second drag, as the nicotine hits my system, and I smile, feeling the wolfish grin of my youth returning.
I tuck the smoke into the corner of my mouth and fish out a little vial of oil from another pocket. It's still there: my own brand of perfume, concocted on the fly from a custom perfumery long, long ago. Mostly vanilla, with coconut, musk, and amber, and then just two drops of orange and one drop of patchouli, to the whole bottle. Just a spice note. This is the scent of Falcon: Amarinth, coffee, and clove cigarettes, wind and rain and bootblack. I rub the oil onto the critical pulse-points – wrists, behind the ears, in the cleavage, right between my thighs – and then stash it back in the pocket. I run my oiled finger around the brim of my hat, another old habit, and smile to myself that I have done this, too, automatically.
I take a couple more drags off the smoke, then hand it to Zev. “It does not smell the same,” he comments, and I shake my head, blowing out the smoke.
“It's not. It's clove.” He takes a drag off it, then hands it back. He shakes his head, and I shrug. I am getting antsy. I take off down the path to the beach, restless, pacing, and circle the house four times before I run out of cigarette and have to stub it out in the ashtray on the front porch. The pack is tucked securely in my inside breast pocket. He cannot have it, not yet. I may need them to bribe Stalker. “Let's make the coffee,” I suggest. “These things take time, and coffee is part of the ritual, too.”
He nods, and we return to the warmth of the fire. He brews and I pace. This house is suddenly too confining. I need to be walking down a city street at top speed. I need to be headed to Beth's Cafe. I need to be on my way to the Hurricane. I need to be striding across Red Square or crashing through the brush at Ravenna Park. I need to be walking down University Way, I need to be on my way to Rocky Horror at the Admiral, I need to have connections that must be made before the night is out. I need to have information to pass on and deals to make, I need to make it to the parking lot at St. Mary's to catch Street Links for a sandwich and a cup of soup. I need to have children to protect from the night and wounds to stitch closed, I need whiskey in the dark and morose conjectures about our life expectancies. I need for Rooster to not be dead on my watch.
Now it's me rattling around the house like a caged tiger. But she's coming back, she is. Falcon Phoenix, the girl who will kick your fucking ass if you say anything racist, the girl who once took down two members of the Mexican Mafia single-handed because some culo started spouting bullshit about how he'd fucked me to his friends, and pissed off his girlfriend, and so she had to come cut a bitch, didn't she? Only I’m not so easy, and you don't bring a pissy little knife when everyone knows I’ve got a baseball bat and about twenty pounds of chains around my waist.
My chains.
I head for the bedroom abruptly, and Zev watches me stalk past. Rummaging around behind the dresser, I find the chains, stuffed in the corner when they fell off the top, ages ago. I wrap them around my waist, let them hang down my thigh. Then I look around and find my bat. I pick it up, swing it a few times. It's like an old friend in my hand, and I suddenly am her. The things I do for love. I reach into my underwear drawer, all the way to the back, and pull out the knife that goes on the side of my boot, on the inside, right next to my ankle, just behind the bone.
I stride out into the living room again, bat in hand, and I can tell, he can see, I’m a new animal. “Stalker will descend without warning. He will test me, test my defences. If you defend me, it will show my weakness. If I am weak, he will not help us.” I see him dart a glance out toward the beach, and I know what he's thinking. “I could go sit on the beach, and force him to approach me in the open, but that shows cowardice. It's too safe. I need to be able to defend my home.” I begin checking the windows in the house, locking all the doors. “It's true that it may be--” I glance at the clock, “--another hour or two before he arrives, but it's also true that he may send scouts.” I sit down again by the fire and pick up the cup he's poured for me.
“Who is this man to you?”
I take a deep breath. “That is a long story, really, but I’ll try to keep it brief.” He nods. “For many reasons, I was forced to leave home when I was sixteen. That would've been fine, except that here in my world, you're not considered an adult until you turn eighteen. There's no compromise, regardless of your skills. You can't rent a room, own any property, nothing like that, unless you're... well, noble, basically. We call them 'celebrities'. Anyway, what this meant for me was a hard existence on the streets of a large city, eating what scraps I could find and defending myself as well as I could.
“On the street, it's either kill or be killed, sometimes. In order to keep ourselves alive, we have to band together. There were six of us: all boys, save me. We were: Falcon, Rooster, Stalker, Mouse, Doc, and Grave. Rooster was our leader, and so named because of his bright red mohawk.” I gesture with my hands to show what that means. “He was brilliant, charismatic, kind, and protective, but he was also wicked-ass brutal when we were in trouble. Mouse was called that because he could make himself so small and quiet, no one would ever notice he was there. People forgot he was present, and would say or do things that they didn't intend for others to witness. Useful talent, that.
“Doc, he was very much into psychology, the science of the mind, and would study other people very carefully, determine their motives, their intentions, practically read their minds. He could tell you, without a doubt, whether someone was lying. He also had a vast knowledge of poisons, medicines, and plants. Grave... got his name because he tended to put people in one, when crossed. We get in a fight, it was Grave I wanted at my back. And Stalker... he could shadow anyone, and never be seen or heard. He could find out anything you wanted to know. He made us fake id's when we were kids, back when that kind of thing was still possible. Now, he knows how to manipulate the system so that he can get information he's not supposed to have, from government sources, and he can put information into them that's not supposed to be there, to create identities or fix things.
“Back when we were still a... uh...” I gesture, trying to come up with a word, beginning to pick up Falcon's tendency to finish sentences with her hands.
“Cell?” Zev offers.
I snap my fingers and point at him. “Right. Anyway, back when we were still together, his powers were not so great, but it was also a bit of an easier time. Things have changed drastically, and the game is much more dangerous. Still, Stalker owes me a life-debt. We had this rule: no one goes anywhere alone. I think I mentioned this.” He nods. “Before, it was each for themselves, and all for the group, but then, one night, I got kidnapped. I was gone for three days, and barely escaped with my life. I only made it out of there because the man holding me captive failed to notice that a spoon was missing from the plate of I-dare-not-think-what that he made me eat. I sawed at my bonds all night, while he slept. Before dawn had fully lit the sky, I bolted.
“The man followed me, and I was forced to run through the streets of the city completely naked, in the rain. I tore up my feet on broken glass and stone, and quickly hid inside a refuse bin to evade him. In the morning, it was Rooster who came to fetch me, after Stalker had determined my location. He gathered me up and carried me back to our squat – the house we were occupying illegally – and got me put back together.
“The man had taken my clothes; I lost my knives, my boots, everything. My boys, though, they took care of me. I spent a week laying there in the squat while my feet healed. They brought me bandages, new clothes. Grave gave me a knife.” I hold up the knife that clips on my boot and show it to him. It is all black, the blade matte black. I flick it open with practised ease, then flip it closed again and toss it to Zev. He turns it over in his hands, examining the latch. “Rooster spanged enough money to get me a pair of boots,” I say, gesturing to my feet.
“Spanged?” he echoes, and I duck my head. Another term of my old paradigm. He hands me back the knife, and I tuck it back in my boot.
“It's a shortening of the phrase 'spare change'. Basically, begging for coppers. Anyway, look: Doc's coat, Mouse's chains; Stalker got me the hat, said it made me look like Death.” I pause, realizing this is a cultural reference that will go over his head, and grab one of my Sandman books off the shelf. I flip through it, find a picture, and show him. “It's a story you might like, actually. You should read them, when you have the chance. Anyway, at the time, my hair was black, because I used to dye it.” I put the book back on the shelf. “They got me another pack, filled it, replaced the things that I had lost, as well as they could. I owed them my life. So, I set about discharging those debts.
“Doc was easy; I stitched up a gash in his leg that went all the way from the inside of his knee to the outside of his thigh,” I say, drawing a line diagonally across my own leg with my finger. “With very little to ease the pain. We had a bottle of whiskey, a needle, and some white thread. The whiskey went on the cut and down his throat, the rest was hours of careful stitching and tons of lost blood. In the end, I was the one who saved his life.
“Mouse got himself tangled with the police – the guard – and I provided him an alibi, said he was my lover, that I had been with him all night. I busted Grave out of a foster home... uh, like an orphanage situation, you know, easy for abuse to happen. He was the youngest of us, fifteen. Rooster, I was his backup when he went to do some negotiations with some of the Mexicans, and when it went south – you know, fell apart into violence – it was my bat took the teeth of the guy who almost sunk a knife in Rooster's neck.
“So me and the rest of the boys, we were square. But Stalker... Like I said, we were kids. He was the oldest of us, nineteen when I left. He was always taking on these jobs that would put him really close to danger, you know, straight into the lion's den. He took a government job, I don't know why. He was supposed to inform on some Skinheads who were running meth. Uh... Bunch of Nazi sympathisers, you know, and no hair. Meth's this drug that makes you really crazy, manic, tireless, obsessive, paranoid, make people hallucinate after a while. Nasty shit, highly addictive, rips people's lives apart, but very easy to manufacture, and once people are hooked into it, they will do just about anything, even murder their own children, to have more of it.”
I start bouncing my knees, getting agitated. “So, you can imagine, it's highly lucrative, you know, and these people protect it with vicious tenacity. Problem with it is that it fragments, it powders. Can't make it or carry it without getting it on you, in you, right, and so these fuckers were crazy, wild-eyed, and paranoid. Stalker, he wasn't equal to it, because these guys were so damned jumpy. He got in too deep. So, here's what I did.
“I was there the night he had a tail, one of these scary guys chasing him, you know, gonna knife him in the dark.” I rise, stalking back and forth. “Other thing about these guys is that they're highly distractable. Me, I’ve got dark hair, yeah, but the blue eyes and the pale skin's what they care about. So I swing myself out into his path, and I provide a distraction.
“Problem, though. My face is known. So I gotta talk fast, right. I say I’m doing a runner, I wanna change teams. He's the leader, you know, so I cosy up, acting scared: little girl needing protection, right.” I make doe eyes and simper, folding my hands under my chin as though I'm begging. “He's such a big, strong man. So handsome. So able to protect me from the people I’m about to turn traitor on. I’ve just been so confused, but ever since the night the Mexicans tried to kill us, I saw the light, and oh, won't you please help me.”
The act falls away just as quickly. “Only way to get Stalker out of there in one piece: I sacrificed myself. I let the guy take me under his wing, let him... take me...” I shudder at the memory, “...to seal the deal. I spent four days with him, biding my time, talking their talk and walking their walk, and not a damned thing my boys could do to bust me out of it.” Automatically, my fingers stray to my pocket, and I grab another cigarette out.
I go out the door, pacing across the porch, and he follows, standing in the doorway, watching
me. I light the smoke, gesturing with it as I speak. I start holding up the fingers of my free hand, one by one. “Destroyed my reputation. Put my own life in danger. Had to leave Rooster to hang out to dry against the Mexicans, which got him killed. Saved Stalker's life. Fled the street after, to keep from getting killed by the Sharps.” I glance at him, and translate: “Skin Heads Against Racial Prejudice. Bald anti-Nazi's. I was a Sharp turned traitor, you see. Had my head shaved, white walls, all the way around. Used to wear liberty spikes, 'fore Stalker got me the hat.” I motion with my hands, outlining the shape of that haircut, what the mohawk looked like when it was up.
“Dude never forgave me for it. Knew it was the only way out, right, knew I couldn't do anything else to save him, knew that anything less would've got us all killed. This way, I protected his life, and his identity. Skins never knew who it was'd been spying on 'em, and when I cut and ran, it didn't blow back on the rest of my boys. Problem, though. It was Doc and Grave, Stalker and Mouse, Rooster and me. When I took off, Rooster was flying solo. Never forgave Stalker for it, even though it's not technically his fault.” I stop abruptly, staring out into the night. All is quiet. I close my eyes and listen, but there's nothing but the surf.
I start pacing again. “So, I saved his life after he helped save mine; square. But, I destroyed my rep, had to fuck the enemy, lost Rooster, and was forced to flee, getting out on my own, no less, so that was four more. So I called it in when I got to Oly – next big city down, maybe hundred miles in between – had him contact some Sharps, so got me back for having to fuck the enemy just getting me a squat. Two was when he repaired my rep with them, telling them what I did to save him, and why, so rep for rep. Three, he took down the ring of Skins, probably ratted, so they didn't come after me for it, so safety for having to flee.
“Twelve years now, I never called in the fourth. Couldn't think of anything that'd make up for him making me lose my boy. Not like that.” I look at Zev. “But now, it's a life for a life. He made it so I lost Rooster, and now he's gonna make it so I can keep you. Final squaring. But first, I gotta prove that I’m not soft, because I have no doubt he knows what's been going down with me, since it's in the info that can be got from the cops. Police.” I shake my head and stub out the tag-end of the clove, then look up at him. “So now you know.”
He is quiet for a very long time, watching me pace and flip my Zippo between my fingers. At last, he asks, “Why is a show of strength necessary? Is it not enough that the debt is owed?”
I stop, looking at him. “No. 'Cause if I’m too soft, he'll think I’d roll on him, and what he does for me is going to put him in danger. He's gotta know that I’m not a rat, that I’m not so weak that my secrets can be had for easy coin. I gotta prove that I’m still Falcon, not some pussy little bitch can't keep her shit, gets pushed around by a fuckin' man. Fuck!”
Falcon would have murdered Tommy in his sleep, the first time he hit her. What happened? I don't know. I thought I loved him? I never said it, it's true...
After Dad died, I was a fucking wreck, that's what. I needed someone to lean on. I moved too many times, needed some place solid to land. Dad helped with that, and then he died, leaving me the house. Mom took off with some old, grizzled hippie, and so I’m here, left alone with Dad's ghost, wandering the house like a shell of myself, and there was Tommy to fill me up with his world. It was good, for a time... but in the end, it made me weak, and now here I am, wondering if Stalker is going to find me lesser, and call the debt paid by my toothlessness.
I do another lap around the house, and stop behind it, listening intently. I heard gravel. I flatten myself to the wall and creep back around to the front. Zev has disappeared. There is an extra shadow on the porch, and I see the glint of steel in the moonlight. Sloppy. I duck back around the corner and light another smoke. Keeping the smoke in one hand, I take my hat off, thrust it out at head-height, around the corner, really quick, and drop it. A knife goes whistling past to bury itself in the sand, straight through the space where my breast should have been. I’m just glad it misses my hat. I whip the chains off my waist and wrap them around my fist, letting the ends trail on the ground.
Time to play.
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I can't really put together a comment to this, it's simply too... I don't know, 'painful' could be the right word. Lily needs lots of hugs.
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painful... yes. i'm grateful for my current situation, that's for sure.
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yay hugs!
*tackle!smooch*
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It started out dark and foreboding and it didn't only continue in the same vein, it has grown even darker and in the last chapter the entire language and mood changed. The transformation was a success and I'm keen to see what the next chapter will bring.
I think writing this does you some good and I admire your courage, I truly do. We all have some corpses hidden in the cellar - some bigger and some smaller ones - and it is never easy to bring them out.
I'm thus queuing up for a hug as well, it's eminently deserved and comes from the heart.
Thanks for sharing this story with us and I am looking forward to reading more of this :)
V.
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:)
more thursday or so.
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It's almost spooky how she manages to transform herself to this ghost from the past, and how vividly you describe the process. It's almost as if I can see her here before me. So intense!
And oh, I can barely wait for the update.
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I have a friend who worked for Covenant House for several years. This was about 20 years ago, in LA, and every letter I received from him, had a story about the kids he helped, and some were in very similar situations. Incredible stuff.
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it's both sad and gives me a sense of solidarity, knowing that there are others out there with similar stories. it's a hard life. what a precious insight you've got, really. so many people have no idea, think i'm blowing smoke, you know? oh, it couldn't be that bad, right?
how much i truly appreciate the simple things in life, now. hot water. a bed. a refrigerator with food in it that i didn't have to steal. ahhh... the comforts of civilization, no? ;)
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And here you are now, living life and appreciating things most of us do not. So, yay for you! And thanks for sharing it with us.
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It's brilliant, and that seems like paltry praise, but it's all I have.
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whatever you're thinkin', if you feel like you can't/shouldn't say it, like it might be disrespectful or something, it's okay. i welcome any and all dialogue, even people's negative reactions. (not that i'm saying you've had one, necessarily; just sayin'.) i'm a tough cookie; you can say anything to me, really.
all praise is happy-making. i appreciate it. ;D
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No no no no no! Nothing negative whatsoever.
Hrm. Maybe I phrased the initial comment badly. My brain is a bit overloaded this weekend.
I like to be able to pick out something to highlight when I give feedback. A particular bit of character interaction, a line, a plot development. Something I especially liked. I just think doing it that way is more meaningful than saying, "yep yep, loved it!" without specifics. I prefer it when people do it that way with me, because then I know what I'm doing right and what resonates with people.
With your story, I'm stuck in the "yep yep, loved it!" place because it's all so brilliant that each time I try to isolate an element that REALLY worked for me, I'm just, "but but... it's ALL. SO. GOOD!"
Makes it harder to give meaningful feedback. Which you totally deserve, but my brain just isn't adequate to the task, apparently. But just saying, "Oh, this is good" is just way too fucking anemic a response to what you are putting out there.
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i try to point out something, too... but i don't always have the words, either. 'sall good. ;)