Entry tags:
file_: backstory excerpt
“Yes, dear, I’ll get to you,” an eerie female voice said. The sound stunned Rivera into silence, and the voice down below chuckled.
“Yes, you. Give me a moment, give me a moment…”
“Who’s there?” He all but whispered, wishing desperately to be able to see. These stupid fucking senior Drac masks — visibility was great when you weren't lying half on your back on a rooftop, dying.
“Oh, no one special, no one special… ah.” He heard the zip of a body bag, then a rustle. He was right, she really was here to steal from the bodies. He couldn’t protest — and what was the point, anyway? He was practically dead, he had no jurisdiction here.
He waited an almost agonizingly long time, listening to the mysterious woman below unzip bags and pick through them - and they were probably near decomposed now, that was disgusting - and he listened desperately for the sound of her climbing the ladder around the back of the station. No amount of listening seemed to catch it, though; one second, he could hear her down below, and the next, he felt footsteps close to his head, and for a moment, he thought someone else had snuck up. A party of two?
“Well, isn’t this a shame,” he heard her voice say above him. So it was her. “You never can trust those vampires, can you?”
Rivera winced and tried to move his arm. He could make out her faint shape, despite the dark, but he wanted to see.
“Yes, hold on,” she said impatiently, as though talking to a child. He felt long fingers dig into the cloth of his mask, and in one swift movement, she yanked it off, exposing his face to the cool night air. Rivera gasped, momentarily forgetting to look; he could breathe, and after hours and hours stuck under that mask, that was a miracle in itself. But then he caught his breath and looked up, and he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.
She was like a bird. The hand clutching his stark white mask had fingers almost like talons, and she wore a mask that completely covered her face. Otherwise, she looked as though she was cloaked in black, glossy feathers. And there was an aura about her — she wasn’t like the Killjoys. She felt like… a breath of fresh air, an open, empty space. A sort of warmth. Rivera was awed.
“It’s rude to stare, you know,” she practically squawked, amusement in her tone. “Now, I believe you and I need to have a little chat.”
Rivera cleared his throat, and found it easier this time; his throat seemed more willing to work, his tongue no longer like a solid brick in his mouth.
“Who — are you?” He croaked, trying to lift his head — but like the rest of his body, it didn’t seem to want to respond, even now.
“No one special,” she repeated, tucking his mask away somewhere underneath all her feathers. “But you may call me the Phoenix Witch, if you like.”
The Phoenix Witch. There was something familiar about it, even though Rivera was sure he’d never heard the name before. It was a strange feeling.
“I’m afraid I have some news for you, fella.”
“Lee.”
"Tch-tch-tch-tch, no! I don’t deal in names, boy, and I don’t want to know yours. One day, should you find your true name — only then will I want to know.”
True name? What did she mean? Maybe he was just lying here hallucinating all of this. That would make more sense than what he was experiencing right now.
“Now, stop interrupting me. What was I saying? — Ah. News. You've arrived far too early for your death, young man.”
Rivera blinked once, twice, to clear this death-drunk vision from his eyes, but she wasn’t going anywhere. “You weren’t supposed to die yet, but leave it to those Draculas or whatever they are, hmm? Scurrying off and messing things up. You’d best get off your butt, friend.”
“I'm dead?”
She sighed with exasperation. “My, that cocktail they’ve given you has made you a bit of a dunce, hasn’t it? As I just said, no. Well, not completely, but that can be fixed, yes, yes…”
Rivera blinked slowly, focused on wiggling his fingers, but they felt like lead.
“I can’t… move.”
“Ah, yes, that is a problem, isn’t it,” she muttered, crouching down next to him. Past her mask, he could see the stars beginning to fade from the sky, signifying the approach of sunrise. The realization came with a strange wave of warmth in his chest, and for the first time in years, Rivera wanted to cry.
“Stop that,” she tsked, placing those birdlike hands on his chest, as if seeking something out — his wound, his injuries. After a moment, she chuckled to herself, and Rivera narrowed his eyes at her.
“Seems this shot was from one of yours, my friend,” which she seemed to think was amusing.
“You’re… lying,” Rivera croaked, and she chuckled again.
“I have no need to lie. Now be quiet, I don’t have time to go running around, fixing every idiot who goes and gets dead ahead of schedule.”
Her hands felt… warm. Safe, in a way. Rivera let his head loll to the side as she did whatever she was doing; if she was lying, and she was going to kill him, he didn’t care, at this point. Anything was better than here. Although here, at this exact moment, wasn't horrible. He could see the horizon beginning to turn pink, and gradually, a brilliant orange began slipping in. And as the colours snuck over the horizon, he felt safe. Warm. Was this what dying felt like?
“Now, you be careful, because I’m not going to do this a second time, you hear me?”
Rivera was only half listening, eyes on the brightening horizon. He heard the Witch fuss around next to him, then stand, and he wondered what exactly she’d done. He was so tired.
“And I’d think twice about running back to those Draculoids, if I were you. You’re needed elsewhere, and much more badly.”
“What?” He asked faintly, only glancing back at her for a second. She sighed, then reached down to pat his head like some kind of four year old.
“You’re welcome, dear,” she said, like a feathery, long-suffering parent. And in a blink of his eyes, she was gone.
Rivera turned his eyes back to the horizon just in time to see the top of the sun crack over the desert dirt, brilliant and blinding through the dirty, polluted, irradiated atmosphere.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
And then everything went white.
“Yes, you. Give me a moment, give me a moment…”
“Who’s there?” He all but whispered, wishing desperately to be able to see. These stupid fucking senior Drac masks — visibility was great when you weren't lying half on your back on a rooftop, dying.
“Oh, no one special, no one special… ah.” He heard the zip of a body bag, then a rustle. He was right, she really was here to steal from the bodies. He couldn’t protest — and what was the point, anyway? He was practically dead, he had no jurisdiction here.
He waited an almost agonizingly long time, listening to the mysterious woman below unzip bags and pick through them - and they were probably near decomposed now, that was disgusting - and he listened desperately for the sound of her climbing the ladder around the back of the station. No amount of listening seemed to catch it, though; one second, he could hear her down below, and the next, he felt footsteps close to his head, and for a moment, he thought someone else had snuck up. A party of two?
“Well, isn’t this a shame,” he heard her voice say above him. So it was her. “You never can trust those vampires, can you?”
Rivera winced and tried to move his arm. He could make out her faint shape, despite the dark, but he wanted to see.
“Yes, hold on,” she said impatiently, as though talking to a child. He felt long fingers dig into the cloth of his mask, and in one swift movement, she yanked it off, exposing his face to the cool night air. Rivera gasped, momentarily forgetting to look; he could breathe, and after hours and hours stuck under that mask, that was a miracle in itself. But then he caught his breath and looked up, and he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.
She was like a bird. The hand clutching his stark white mask had fingers almost like talons, and she wore a mask that completely covered her face. Otherwise, she looked as though she was cloaked in black, glossy feathers. And there was an aura about her — she wasn’t like the Killjoys. She felt like… a breath of fresh air, an open, empty space. A sort of warmth. Rivera was awed.
“It’s rude to stare, you know,” she practically squawked, amusement in her tone. “Now, I believe you and I need to have a little chat.”
Rivera cleared his throat, and found it easier this time; his throat seemed more willing to work, his tongue no longer like a solid brick in his mouth.
“Who — are you?” He croaked, trying to lift his head — but like the rest of his body, it didn’t seem to want to respond, even now.
“No one special,” she repeated, tucking his mask away somewhere underneath all her feathers. “But you may call me the Phoenix Witch, if you like.”
The Phoenix Witch. There was something familiar about it, even though Rivera was sure he’d never heard the name before. It was a strange feeling.
“I’m afraid I have some news for you, fella.”
“Lee.”
"Tch-tch-tch-tch, no! I don’t deal in names, boy, and I don’t want to know yours. One day, should you find your true name — only then will I want to know.”
True name? What did she mean? Maybe he was just lying here hallucinating all of this. That would make more sense than what he was experiencing right now.
“Now, stop interrupting me. What was I saying? — Ah. News. You've arrived far too early for your death, young man.”
Rivera blinked once, twice, to clear this death-drunk vision from his eyes, but she wasn’t going anywhere. “You weren’t supposed to die yet, but leave it to those Draculas or whatever they are, hmm? Scurrying off and messing things up. You’d best get off your butt, friend.”
“I'm dead?”
She sighed with exasperation. “My, that cocktail they’ve given you has made you a bit of a dunce, hasn’t it? As I just said, no. Well, not completely, but that can be fixed, yes, yes…”
Rivera blinked slowly, focused on wiggling his fingers, but they felt like lead.
“I can’t… move.”
“Ah, yes, that is a problem, isn’t it,” she muttered, crouching down next to him. Past her mask, he could see the stars beginning to fade from the sky, signifying the approach of sunrise. The realization came with a strange wave of warmth in his chest, and for the first time in years, Rivera wanted to cry.
“Stop that,” she tsked, placing those birdlike hands on his chest, as if seeking something out — his wound, his injuries. After a moment, she chuckled to herself, and Rivera narrowed his eyes at her.
“Seems this shot was from one of yours, my friend,” which she seemed to think was amusing.
“You’re… lying,” Rivera croaked, and she chuckled again.
“I have no need to lie. Now be quiet, I don’t have time to go running around, fixing every idiot who goes and gets dead ahead of schedule.”
Her hands felt… warm. Safe, in a way. Rivera let his head loll to the side as she did whatever she was doing; if she was lying, and she was going to kill him, he didn’t care, at this point. Anything was better than here. Although here, at this exact moment, wasn't horrible. He could see the horizon beginning to turn pink, and gradually, a brilliant orange began slipping in. And as the colours snuck over the horizon, he felt safe. Warm. Was this what dying felt like?
“Now, you be careful, because I’m not going to do this a second time, you hear me?”
Rivera was only half listening, eyes on the brightening horizon. He heard the Witch fuss around next to him, then stand, and he wondered what exactly she’d done. He was so tired.
“And I’d think twice about running back to those Draculoids, if I were you. You’re needed elsewhere, and much more badly.”
“What?” He asked faintly, only glancing back at her for a second. She sighed, then reached down to pat his head like some kind of four year old.
“You’re welcome, dear,” she said, like a feathery, long-suffering parent. And in a blink of his eyes, she was gone.
Rivera turned his eyes back to the horizon just in time to see the top of the sun crack over the desert dirt, brilliant and blinding through the dirty, polluted, irradiated atmosphere.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
And then everything went white.