A/N; This is...different character view then I'm used, definitely more free flowing and natural. So, if it seems a bit off in places feel free to tell me.
The diner smells of death and brew.
I'm sitting here, feet propped up on the rackety-shack table, blood dribbling out of my lip. Little by little, it eases down the thin surface of my chin and lands on the table in a plop...right next to my coffee. Almost in it, but not quite. I consider briefly if that would taste any good...chances were just not high up there. The coffee was just too bitter for the bold, brass taste of the stuff.
The sun's setting down, and lemme just tell you real quick, the blood's not mine. It's the waitress's, and she's at the end of the table with pistol shots widening the space between her ribs and a glossed over look hanging in her dull brown eyes. I'm preparing to leave, and on the way out snack on some bacon that was for the customer who ran when he heard murder and saw my canines extending to just below my lower lips. They're in now, those little teeth, now that I've already fed. Deep in my gums, hiding there and waiting for the next opportunity. Despite the warm sensation settling in my gut, dead pig greasy with fat sounded perfect right now. Really, that and coffee were the only 'human' foods that could stay with me these days.
I gear up to leave, pistol in hand, locked and loaded. Safety's not on. I'm already dead, a little shot by this thing wouldn't, couldn't make a damn difference. Resting just below my waist, hanging in the air within it's little leather holster, hangs another gun of a different sort. The pistol's for the weak willed humans, the other...well, let's just say it's for my sort.
One last swig of coffee and a handful of crusty, crinkly bacon and I'm out the door, the soles of my feet banging the ground through my boots. The goggles that had been shifted to my forehead earlier on are now slipped onto my eyes as I enter the desert atmosphere. There's just a slight, slight breeze yet the earth dust rises up and whips my face, whacking against the skin and entering my insides through the crack between the two thick skin slabs of lip. I lick the gritty texture, running the sand along my teeth and tasting it, then spitting it straight on the ground, the wetness pooling up just a tad in the hot sand. If I could sweat, believe me, I would.
Just outside the diner with the dead waitress, my little ATV sits with patience, rusting more and more with each and every day. This ATV, this funky little yellow thing, it's been through a lot as evidenced by the dried blood on the side, crawling up the treaded tires. I swing my body on the seat, placing my rear-end on the ripped but decently squishy surface, and bounce myself into position. The key's always in the ignition, don't forget about that, although I will readily admit that that's not the best idea. But hell, with the jingle-jangle of stuff that's already in my pockets, it would just get lost in that abyss and I'd end up dumping it all on the ground in some sort of fit of rage. My stomach's full, but of course I could use more. Anyone, anywhere in this territory could always use more.
****
“Audrey, I need you to listen,” The ATV stops at it's destination, thirty miles away from the diner, and the pleading blue eyes of a blonde are staring at me from its stopping place. His hair, shaggy and greasy and dripping just barely over his scrawny shoulders.
“Torrance,” I respond blankly as I hike off, shaking what little hair I have. Long before, ages ago actually, I cut it short, and that was that. I would never look like a female should, just with the quick hacking of some dull scissors. Bam, male. “Where's everyone?” I look at the blank campsite. They were my team-mates, until later on. At some point, they'll all be gone completely, either resting or slaves, but perhaps one will stay in the end to win the prize. Doubtful, with what a lot they are...not that I don't enjoy their company, nor do I think I'm any better.
Really, we're all just old idiots who want to die. I mean, that's the prize. You either get annihilated (See: the other weapon hanging on me besides the pistol) and are to work as a test subject, slave, whatever or you finally... die. After all the shit and damnation that you've seen throughout your years, you die. Good riddance to being a vampire, a freak, a reject. You get to be buried with a funeral and the lowering of the casket and all that. Lovely. Compared to most here, at the age of one hundred and three, I'm a spring chicken. I should be a slave, that's a common idea about me. Too young to die, that's an idea about me. Whatever. When the teams are separated, due to a small amounts of us left, and it's every man and or woman for themselves, I'll be happy to gun whomever down.
“Um...” Torrance starts to think. He's a good person, he really is. But...he's spacey, and that's the truth in it all. “But...anyway, Audrey, I need to tell you something.” He keeps his hands together pretty much twenty-four seven, clasped in this awkward fold, but he lets them go for a second to tap me to get my attention.
“Yesss?” I stretch out my word as I start to unpack things from the ATV. Just supplies, a few knifes from the diner that I stole a few nights ago. I secretly hope that that dead waitress is replaced, because I don't mind her being there. She's nice.
“I think Team C's going to be here soon,” He leans close to me and I can smell his breath. Yeah, blood. His black eyes stare eagerly at me, waiting for a response.
“Then...let's pack up?” I shrug. “Does Bitty know?” Torrance has always fancied himself a predictor...not in a physic sense, he's just damn good at being right about things. It would just be wrong to doubt him, especially since he saved my ass a few times before.
“She ran off before I could say anything,” He sighed. Bitty, the other team-mate...she's doesn't like him as much I'm so fond of him; she thinks he's creepy, and while that might be a sliver of truth, at least he tries. I rub his hair, fluffing his straight locks. I can feel the oil strands slip through my fingers. “Gahhh.” Torrance swats my hand away, and I meekly smile.
“Just go start packing, okay? Shove your stuff on there,” I nod in my ATV's general direction. There's a black plastic box tied to the back, and in goes whatever I was unpacking earlier.
“Alright,” I whisper to myself. Most that I need is on my body , but the tent and the things inside it need packing. I start to toss stuff out when the sound of another ATV comes rolling in the direction I'm in. My first instinct is to shoot, but I calm when I turn and see a mess of ginger hair.
“What's up, what're we doin'?” The ginger hair, that big mess of fuzz, says. She speaks in an odd sort of accent, not one I've ever been able to to place.
“Start packing, Bitty,” I say. “Most of your stuff is still in here.” I launch a few of her books outwards.
“Hey!” She retrieves the novels and holds them close to her, narrowing her eyes in a form of anger at me. Then, she turns to lovingly tuck them into large cargo canvas bag hanging from her side. “I'll shoot you.” She mutters. It's a joke, but if she wasn't what could be considered a friend, it could easily be twisted into a threat.
“Yeah, yeah,” I nod. Besides, Bitty hates shooting. She prefers others to take charge, which wasn't a bad thing. Lessens her chances of being killed anyway. Honestly, I thought she'd be taken out a long time ago. I noticed the prettier ones were picked off faster. These days, however, everyone was lookin' rough. It's not like there's showers in the middle of nowhere.
“Torrance is here, Torrance is ready,” He calls out as he exits through the flaps of his little home on stakes. His expression's dull, but at least he's awake and actually moving. He does this whole 'speaking in third person' on occasions, it really depends on his stress level. For the record, it's been rather high as of late.
His arms are stuffed full of random knickknacks, objects held close to his body for fear of them being lost. Along his face, just below his brows, an open wound puckers the flesh. There's no blood, nothing trickling or sickling out. I start putting my tent down, crashing the frame with my boots and a little effort.
It's during this I feel the shot, just gently ripping through the faux leather fabric hanging off my body.
“God dammit!” I yell, whipping my body away from the area. I sputter out my words, syllables of swears cutting past my lips. If I had a beating heart within me, the shock would collapse it. There's nothing thought past that moment, just doing. I don't care about anything but myself, and really, that's okay. That's what I tell myself as I twist my body and pull my ToRrent from it's shield and prep it.
“Audrey-” I hear my name, but it doesn't really register to me. My body and mind don't want to talk. “AUDREY.” A sharp pain is slapped through the shaped back of my skull, underneath my rooted hair. I can't recall the exact severity of the pain, but I could damn well tell it wasn't a bullet wound. I'm being pushed down, pressure exerted to my spine, and I'm wishing for a brief second I would have worked out more. Somethings being released, and I see a shiny glint in the side of my dead pupils, just barely there. It's a knife, being retracted and pulled from the concave of my head. There's a thump, light, the sound of a skinny and bony body hitting the sand, and I see this bright orange crashing down, like an ablaze building toppling to its final demise.
Bitty comes and lands at my side, and it's funny, I have this feeling that she won't be moving again anytime soon. Basically, she's a goner, good luck trying to save her. My head's pounding and my eyes are cringing, but I tighten my teeth against each other. Gritting and ignoring it. I'm pinned, hands pressed underneath my body, and my rage level is reaching a high as a friend's body is motionless beside me and there's not a thing I can attempt to do, even if I do want to break the victimizer. My ToRrent is pressed up against the skin of hip, pressuring the skin, and I want it more then ever. I want to feel the steel of the trigger glide against my fingers. I want to aim and shoot and demolish-
An enemy's ToRrent is pressed and nuzzled against my neck, and that's when I choose to shut my eyes.
