Welcome Guest [Log In] [Register]
ZetaBoards - Free Forum Hosting
Join the millions that use us for their forum communities. Create your own forum today.
Viewing Single Post From: I Say You Kill Your Heroes And Fly, Fly, Baby Don't Cry
Cicada Days
Member Avatar
keep running yoshi
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
All Irene could recall clearly upon wakening were the bindings they’d lashed her down with. Was making them so tight on the joints really called for?

G032 : Irene Djezari

She had to move, and fast! Haul ass, like all up and toss posterior onto a cart and lug it behind her like she was a husky sled dog. No furry intended. But yeah. She’d figured it out the seconds she’d woken. She had to stop something really bad from happening, lest something really bad happen.

Okay, maybe she’d needed a bit after she’d come to, sprawled out jumping jacks over a tiny, calm beach where the waves only lightly prodded at the shore. Sand was rough, coarse, irritating. Got everywhere, which had mandated Irene’s dancing awkwardly in place for about a minute to shake the shower of grainy particles free from the intimate folds of her skirt’s bell. Noah would have been proud if he’d been around to bear witness. Oh shit, Noah. He’d been on the trip too? At least as much as Irene could recall from the attempts to pointedly ignore him on the bus. Maybe, maybe it had been a kid who had just looked like broad shoulders and pretty blonde hair and regret.

Anyways. She'd stood around for a few seconds, rifled around the bag to touch at all the meaningless knick-knacks stuffed within. It had taken her a few moments to reach a conclusion. But she’d quickly stumbled out a plan for from the old two-engine chugger brain was figuring out her w’s and her solitary h: Who, where, what, when, why, how.

Who, well. That was Irene. Standing stock still and pretty with a harsh little zephyr of wind caressing her face for a poignantly irrelevant Hallmark moment.

Where? Irene glanced at the cloud choked sun at a harsh angle before realizing the sun hurt head on- applied directly to the forehead- seeing if she could figure out her east and west. She worked it out then promptly realized that was irrelevant information. Some kinda beach on some kinda shoreline. That was it.

What? A bag full of crap and a gun. The gun, frankly, was also crap.

Why? Well, Irene’s thesis was one she formulated with her arms crossed under her chest and a tisk curling her lip. They were being had. Duped. Bamboozled. Schmekle-dorfed. They were right up there on the periphery, a camera or two chilling on the treeline, suspended from rocks and such. This was all just way too easy. Kids go out on a school trip and just happen to get pulled into the historical antiquity that was an old edgelord series documenting the weakness and cowardice of humanity or whatever. Just a bunch of hashtags and censored stills. Who the hell wrote this script? No wait, fuck, ‘who’ had already been answered as a rhetorical question.

But Irene didn’t buy into it. Within the day people would be shouting it out. ‘Just a prank!’ ‘Gone sexual’! ‘You won’t believe what happens next’! It almost made her feel smug, that she could so handily call the douchebags out on their farce. Puffed up her chest a bit, cold-welded a steel smile right onto her face. But that’s when the realization hit her, like a punch right to that douchey grin. Others might buy into it, just through pure statistics. How many kids had gotten onto that bus? Hundred, seven, give or take, she’d done a headcount out of boredom while the wheels on the bus had been revving. The warm up for going round-and-round.

And the weapons were definitely just plastic fakes, but people could still get hurt. Maybe some dork would engage another in fisticuffs to avenge their girl or some other bullshit machismo thing.

So that was the ‘how’. Get out there and tell the others her revelations, handed from on high like the Ten Commandments. Built of stone, like Irene’s brain.

The bag was heavy, it rattled a lot with the thick and still totally fake gun half-hanging out of the sloppily half-open zipper. She toted it over her shoulder as best she could, resisting the omnipresent urge to awkwardly stumble due to the uneven footing. Again, sand was loathsome. The barrel of the gun shyly nuzzled into her hip, icy metallic presence heavy even at a gentle touch. Man. Realistic piece they had here.

She kept her eyes peeled, on the ball, other metaphors. A boy melted into the horizon after she cleared a kink in line of sight. The beach already seemed to end right past him. That was a small amount of ‘more grains in this beach of sand than stars in the universe’. He stood up, and she recognized from a distance.

Jeremy Frasier, sometimes smart, sometimes annoying, but always sort of a friend at the very least. One of those faces you smiled at, if only because you didn’t really know how else to respond. A smile to respond, when he’d say those things that would rile her up, something straight out of the mouths of old dead white people that she couldn’t bear to acknowledge even though they were smart. On impulse her trigger finger stuck itself into the air, along with the rest of her hand and attached arm, for a violent wave.

“Jeremy!” She shouted. She rapidly trudged the rest of the distance between them, nearly stumbling into a face-wards fall at least a few times. “Jeremy, Jeremy!” A few more times for good measure. Irene liked being sure, at least about things that mattered.

“Jeremy.” She arrived in his airspace, only a bit tired out. Her honed body heaved a bit, for maybe a second, then smoothed itself out into poise and grace. Well, maybe just poise. Her periphery vision caught the vague polygons of a distant camera swiveling. “Looks like someone’s watching us. Whatever. Okay.” She held up her hands, pulsing them back and forth in an attempt to make her body language work on her behalf.

“It is important, very important, that we don’t do anything stupid. This is all just a misunderstanding.”

V6 - Like you imagined when you... were young...
Offline Profile Quote Post
I Say You Kill Your Heroes And Fly, Fly, Baby Don't Cry · The Cove