[ The circumstances that Max finds herself in are, comparative to everything else, almost unremarkable. She goes looking for a certain type of person in a certain type of place, well, she finds that type of person in that place, and not just one.
That's the complicated part. But at least this time, she's aware as a human foolishly approaches her, this one with a knife. He gets a small slash across the membrane of the wing attacked to the arm reaching for him—slashing him across the chest. It isn't foolish in motive, as his goal is to stop the trance Max has his uppity, fast-talking leader caught in. The trance... The trance, that Max is so completely unprepared for. Has never once attempted. Wait, rewind, it's—
It would be very noble to say Max found a trio of twentysomethings menacing some innocent kid or a lady in the wrong part of town. But no, they're just loitering, lingering, talking big and talking shit. One of them catches the light reflecting off the bits of her body that are not scales, are instead a pastel carapace, and yes, he does shoot off some charged things that Max will not repeat, and he does start towards her with a threat to skin her like the beast she is—
But even before that. The moment she lays eyes on them, a bunch of assholes who're sneering and wearing too much denim, hair a little too curly and eyes a little too eccentric but sleepy, smile a little too tight, it's a foregone conclusion. One of these men is going to be who she hunts tonight. Before the threats. Before the trance. Before one nicks a wing. Before the other throws a metal trash can at her that she slaps back with her tail. Before she's walking backwards, barely able to keep track of the lackeys as her whole attention and focus is on this guy with dirty blonde hair and a bad attitude, who reminds her in so many superficial fucking ways of the brother she lost July 4th, 1985, at Starcourt Mall.
Time continues to stretch on. Until there's a noise, a soft one normally, but for Basil's ears...? Well.
It's the clatter of two sets of footsteps, distant but quickly approaching, and notable in how quickly. They almost cover up the slower ones, one with the same general weight and sound—of shoes on concrete, step, step, step—and the other scratchier and heavier—scales, claws, clack, clack, clack—that are closer, down the hall, down a nearby alley.
They don't cover up the small gasp, though. Nor the heavy breathing, or the wince, all familiar in voice.
Max backs out of an alley, eyes wide by force and watering. She looks dazed but determined, like her very hold on her sense of self is floating away. Red, living blood runs from a small cut on her left Gargoyle wing, and she's gritting her teeth. Both sets of teeth, clenched to a soundless snarl, save for her struggles.
She's been doing this for nearly six minutes, all the while being assailed and distracted, and for a first time with no practice... That is, about, her limit. ]
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timeasmymeasure
cw: violence + threats against teenagers, mild unreality
Date: 2023-07-27 07:09 am (UTC)That's the complicated part. But at least this time, she's aware as a human foolishly approaches her, this one with a knife. He gets a small slash across the membrane of the wing attacked to the arm reaching for him—slashing him across the chest. It isn't foolish in motive, as his goal is to stop the trance Max has his uppity, fast-talking leader caught in. The trance... The trance, that Max is so completely unprepared for. Has never once attempted. Wait, rewind, it's—
It would be very noble to say Max found a trio of twentysomethings menacing some innocent kid or a lady in the wrong part of town. But no, they're just loitering, lingering, talking big and talking shit. One of them catches the light reflecting off the bits of her body that are not scales, are instead a pastel carapace, and yes, he does shoot off some charged things that Max will not repeat, and he does start towards her with a threat to skin her like the beast she is—
But even before that. The moment she lays eyes on them, a bunch of assholes who're sneering and wearing too much denim, hair a little too curly and eyes a little too eccentric but sleepy, smile a little too tight, it's a foregone conclusion. One of these men is going to be who she hunts tonight. Before the threats. Before the trance. Before one nicks a wing. Before the other throws a metal trash can at her that she slaps back with her tail. Before she's walking backwards, barely able to keep track of the lackeys as her whole attention and focus is on this guy with dirty blonde hair and a bad attitude, who reminds her in so many superficial fucking ways of the brother she lost July 4th, 1985, at Starcourt Mall.
Time continues to stretch on. Until there's a noise, a soft one normally, but for Basil's ears...? Well.
It's the clatter of two sets of footsteps, distant but quickly approaching, and notable in how quickly. They almost cover up the slower ones, one with the same general weight and sound—of shoes on concrete, step, step, step—and the other scratchier and heavier—scales, claws, clack, clack, clack—that are closer, down the hall, down a nearby alley.
They don't cover up the small gasp, though. Nor the heavy breathing, or the wince, all familiar in voice.
Max backs out of an alley, eyes wide by force and watering. She looks dazed but determined, like her very hold on her sense of self is floating away. Red, living blood runs from a small cut on her left Gargoyle wing, and she's gritting her teeth. Both sets of teeth, clenched to a soundless snarl, save for her struggles.
She's been doing this for nearly six minutes, all the while being assailed and distracted, and for a first time with no practice... That is, about, her limit. ]