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Cicada Days
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keep running yoshi
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Heat flaked off the body, it dripped from the two points where Tina had weld herself to her weapon. Off taut knuckles and wrists, almost shearing themselves down to bone.

Isabel's thoughts, somehow, seemed to radiate from her as her body heat. Not in words to ignore, or expressions to understand, and Tina found that there were no meanings to be had. All Tina could see was eyes. Organic shades of green and brown that melted away into black. No matter where Tina could dare to look all there was was some form of black, be it the black of another or the black of her own she suddenly coughed up. She felt the soot grind in her frail chest, a hand failed to cover her mouth. The quiet crunch of sharp under her feet as they were bounced by her convulsions. Painful, so painful. She could even feel the shards piercing virgin skin, through the vanguard of rubber.

Isabel's thoughts, now, were syllables. Four syllables, one subject, past tense. Tina coughed even when she didn't, her throat pumping air outward bound. One breath too many, and they continued to salt her tongue with bitter. There was something, something. Something in the arid, something in the eddies and whorls about her. Two things, hazy and indistinct and painted over a grotesque mosaic tile. Somethings.

"You're nothing."

Isabel now was melting, ice cream in a licorice shade smeared over the eyes that continued to be so impossible to actually see. Yet she seemed to become all the clearer. Four walls all too far became further, and Isabel became closer. Precipitating from the horizons, shapes became clearer, defined like muscles. Crystalline, the sweat of exertion on the skin. Tina felt the shrinking of her heel. But this time, nothing her back could find solace, against. One of one. That was how it was supposed to measure out, in cupfuls and spoonfuls of soot and ash. But reality was all too defined now. And it drew ever closer. One of one.

One clause, one idea. One weapon. One target. Even as the camera of Tina's eyes could only capture Isabel in motion blur. She was all too definite, all too real. All too close. The verdant possibilities of motion, the thousand Van Gogh swirls of butterfly wings, they collapsed into a singular point.

Collapsed Tina's elbow. A shield for her body, cracked and splintered like reeds. Pain was reality, it fed the nerves a smorgasbord, fed them flavors bitter and saltine as Tina's elbow was painted the spillage purple and black like grapes of wrath. Not neat, not tidy. It dissolved like everything else. All became Tina's weapon, the iron that breathed with her. One arm failed her. But one arm stayed true. Isabel's action potentials, momentums, became Tina's.

An angle of almost sixty, a second or less, and then the crunch of flat bone under duress. Like a baseball bat, an efficient swing.
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Rückenfigur · One-on-one Therapy