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Blue Light Productions presents:
TEENS IN TRENCHCOATS
episode seven,
"Weakness,"
by Ben Rawluk,
with special thanks to Jen Whitson.
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Soundtrack -
Ravencroft: "Cruel," by Tori Amos.
Dust: "Grave Mentor," by Delerium.
Winterthorne: "Datura," by Tori Amos.
Emily: "Trans Fatty Acid," by Lamb.
Luke: "Only Happy When It Rains," by Garbage.
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Darkness. Almost midnight.
The only light was that of the city, pinpricks of neon shimmering in
the dark as she sat on the roof, clutching her coppery arms to keep from
freezing in the night air. Stupid Net.ropolis, she thought - it always had
to be cold at night. Even in summer. The warehouse groaned quietly beneath
her - she could almost pick out the heartbeats inside. Her cohorts. But she
turned her attention to the city - all the lights and colours and sounds.
She wondered why she was out so late. It felt like a dream was waiting
to be dreamed. The fifth time in as many nights. Dust was her name and dust
was her element; swirls of dirt surged through the air in every direction,
responding to her unconscious desires. Swirl here, stab out there. Clouds
were forming, an aura of dingy brown that obscured her features as she sat
on the roof, shivering, waiting for the reason for her insomnia.
Something flew past; her eyes strained, and she tried to make the shape
out. A crow? No, more like a raven, flying off into the distance. Dust
giggled, in spite of herself; Rebecca had mentioned that omens tended to
show up in Net.ropolis all the time. Probably nothing more.
Almost midnight.
Something was screaming in the back of Dust's mind. She couldn't put a
finger on it, but it was certainly making itself known; the dirt and
pebbles were flying all around, faster and faster. Growing in intensity.
Like some kind of anticipation.
And then something happened; a thought struck Dust. It was almost
midnight, and now she realized that midnight was /important/, and not just
because of things like the Witching Hour and - and - and - Witching Hour?
Dust stopped for a moment. She felt like she should be hearing witches any
second, cackling away. That didn't make sense. She hated things that didn't
make sense. The soil stabbed out like blades of smoke.
Midnight.
Dust screamed, low and gutteral. She clutched her cheeks, fingers
digging in and dragging down on the skin as everything came back. It was
hideous. She wasn't Dust. She was, she said to herself in loud capital
letters, Dust of the Wicked. Her cortex burned as blood made contact
(imagined). She remembered -
Shattered and holding him in her hands until he is broken, too. He's
dead just the same,
lying naked beneath the baking sun, all his pretty fluids sucked into the
hot dirt beneath him. Dust crouched at his side, caked in earth, the brown
streaks of it across her face and beneath her gleaming eyes, so full of
viciousness and the joy of victory that she looks near fit to cry...
Holding her brother.
Holding Scald. Her blood boils in her veins because that was what he
did - pulled everything up, everything to the surface, a raging flood of
familial blood...
And Dust clutched the metal of the roof, propping herself up - bringing
herself back to the present. She had, she knew, barely a minute before she
forgot it all again. A minute to go before the pain disappeared and she got
to be mortal and human and normal, even if she /could/ twist the soils and
the ashes and the dust.
Her eyes widened.
Widened.
Widened to the size of dinner plates, because she /knew/. Ravens don't
just show up around her. It doesn't work like that. They come if they're
ordered to, if torture is in the mind of the master. She sniffed the air,
still wincing from the pain she remembered. It was so hideous, like knives
in her back. She picked up the scent after a moment. She was out of
practice.
"Hello," she said, in a pained voice. "Sister Wicked."
The figure stepped out of the shadows, light slowly filling in the
details as Dust turned to look: slight and lithe, skin like vanilla ice
cream on a hot day in summer. Lips like dead flower petals. Eyes of that
familiar blue, like oceans untouched by pollution. Dark clothing, sensible
for once. Dust was almost impressed. "Hello, Dust," said the girl. "It /is/
still Dust, right? You two," her voice caught on the word 'two,' "You were
never really into the name game, I remember. Call me Ravencroft right now,
okay?"
Dust looked at Ravencroft with uncertainty, eyes narrowing in slight
disgust.
"Oh. The curse. Right. Don't worry, it doesn't come back into effect
until I leave. I've made sure of that." Ravencroft looked away, and Dust
perked up - she was obviously fighting something inside her head. She didn't
want to come in the first place.
"Why are you here?" Dust stood slowly, deliberately. "You're not
supposed to visit me, ever. You don't want to. I can see it in your eyes,
you little - Ravencroft."
"Can't a big sister," Ravencroft bit her lip, "Visit a little sister?"
"No." Dust crossed her arms. The memory - on the edge of her
perceptions, she felt it grow more vivid with each passing second. She
winced. The curse was so strong.
"Fine." Ravencroft walked right up to Dust, noses mere inches apart.
"Play it the hard way, you little bitch. You screwed everything up -
destroyed our destiny, Dust. I - how did you do it?"
"What?" Dust took a step back. Dammit, she thought, never show
weakness. "I - look, I said when it happened, when Father wanted to know. He
provoked me like usual, he boiled my blood with his - his inheritence. That
was his thing, you know that. Twist people up inside, make them remember
every killer instinct, every iota of hate. I couldn't take that anymore. Why
- why are you bothering me with this? Can't you let me spend my minute in
hell and then go back to not remembering the pain?" As long as Ravencroft
held back the curse that made her forget who she was, the pain and the
memories of her old existence were foremost in her mind.
"No." And as Ravencroft spoke, Dust remembered -
Then the door opens, and Winterthorne and Ravencroft stand looking
down, big sister and big brother are home. Dust looks up, and for the barest
second the joy is in her eyes, and the pain as well, and the desparate need
for them to _understand_ why she has done what she has done.
Weakness...
Dust shook her head violently, pulling herself back. "Well, why the
hell not? You said we don't have our destinies anymore. We aren't what we
were. What we were meant to be. You and our brother sank into the roots of
it all, primal and elemental and that's great, you survived. I got to be
mortal and that's how /I/ survived. Can't I have that?"
"Don't tell me you wanted that." Ravencroft pulled away, eyes searching
into the night. "The blood, the guts ripped right out of you. That's how you
became mortal. They took their pound of flesh right in front of us, Mother
and Father did. I heard you scream for an entire day. They pulled it out and
stuck it in a box and that was that."
"When I'm mortal," spat Dust, "I don't remember that. I can't. Why are
you here? Why are you screwing with my life even though I'm suddenly
insignificant?"
"He's here," mumbled Ravencroft, staring at the rooftop. "He's calling
himself Winterthorne. He said he was going to come see you."
"He hasn't. Why is he here, then?"
"He wants to play with my toys," Ravencroft grunted. "I hate him. You
hate him. Maybe we could, y'know?" She looked up at Dust, pointedly, "I
could keep the curse away for a while." More remembered moments -
Two sets of them, Winterthorne and Ravencroft just old enough that they
focus most of their attention on each other, leaving the younger set of
siblings to do the same with themselves. Each half of each set spending most
of their time trying to foul up the other half, and though other pairings
and alliances formed they were impermanent and just as likely to drift into
backstabbing as to stay the same...
"No." Her voice was flat, she didn't care what Ravencroft thought.
Delicately, she moved over to the edge of the roof, looking down over the
side. Her friends were inside, under her feet, and they didn't know anything
about what was going on. And, come morning, neither would she. "It never
worked, in the old days. You'll stab me in the back, or I'll stab you."
"Dust, I /hate/ him."
"I know."
Dust closed her eyes, and then opened them. She couldn't go on like
this. "Stop this. Go away. Let me forget. I have to. God, I'm going insane
because of you."
"Families are supposed to drive each other crazy," giggled Ravencroft.
Falsely.
"Gospel according to the Nineties," grimaced Dust. "I won't help you."
"No, I suppose not. Daddy'll be so mad if he finds out I talked to you.
I suppose that's why Winterthorne said anything - screw with my head, get me
in trouble."
A memory cascaded across Dust's lobes -
That day. Ravencroft and Winterthorne look at each other and smile. Not
real ones, of course, nothing /real/ between them but knives, yet happy just
the same.
Won't Daddy and Mum be /so/ angry when they hear about this...
"Gnh." Dust gripped the sides of her head. "That was what it was always
about, wasn't it? Getting each other in trouble. Well, /fuck that/. I was
just getting used to being a supervillain, and then you have to make the way
things were stick around for more than a minute at midnight. I /know/ you
didn't come here to ask for my help - we're both too far gone for that. What
did you want from me, you stupid girl?"
"How did it feel?"
"How did what feel?"
"It. The big deed. How did it feel. To spill Wicked blood?"
"Oh." Dust looked up, at the high-rise skyscrapers, blinking on and
off. "It felt - look. You know how it felt. You can guess. It felt beautiful
wonderful like ecstasy from on high. I wanted to dance in the valley for
seven days and seven nights, because my blood wouldn't fill with bile to let
me know that he was near, because he never would be, again." A thin,
featureless smile crept across her lips - cracked and dry lips. "I was
relieved."
"Ah." Ravencroft stared. Her fists clenched and unclenched. Dust sat
after a moment, pulling her knees up to her chin. After a moment, Ravencroft
joined her: the position didn't suit her, Dust decided, but she attempted it
anyway.
"So he's screwing up your latest game?"
"Yes." Ravencroft breathed in and out. "I have so many good ideas, and
he wrecks them all."
"Scald was the same way."
"Do you miss it?"
Dust thought for a moment. "No. The pain's too much. I'm barely not
screaming right now. Believe me. I like the way things are when I don't
remember. I think. The people I'm with are stupid and clumsy and I want to
wrap tendrils of soil around their throats sometimes. But."
Ravencroft stared at the lights, her eyes twitching back and forth
between them. "I've met this boy," she said, finally. Her voice almost
quivered, twitching as the old muscles relaxed and she felt the angst
dripping away from her.
"Yes? And?"
"I'm manipulating his life to shatter his sister's will and align her
prowess to my desires."
Dust nodded, sagely. She felt strange; they shouldn't be talking about
this kind of thing. They should at each other's throats or stabbing
Winterthorne in the back. But things had changed, she mused, and nothing was
what it once was. She - she remembered again -
They had wings. But now the feathers of charcoal grey fall to the
ground with each passing moment as Scald's death echoes through all of them,
all the Wicked - they are growing older, growing primal as his blood seeps
into the soil. Ancient impulses echo inside her forehead as she sees what
she has done...
"The usual," she said, finally. Dust almost smiled; she had recovered
faster, the train of thought was still within her grasp. "Is there something
special about this boy? Is he a Chosen One or something?"
"No. Not chosen or anointed or destined for great things. Just this
boy, with a sister. A sister will be useful to me." Ravencroft smirked
darkly. But not with the teeth. "He's a good kisser, though. Even if he
/does/ wear too much makeup."
"Makeup?" Dust grimaced at the thought. "Goth, then? One of your usual
fare?"
"Yes. Sad, isn't it? Can't I find /one/ lousy bronzed god in a position
of use to me?"
Dust and Ravencroft stared at each other for a moment. Something was
different. And then they did something they hadn't done in a long, long
time: they broke down into giggles. Dust winced every time, though. The pain
bled into her brow. "I think you should stick with the goths."
"I suppose." Ravencroft stared. "I - I suppose we would never have
talked about this, before."
"I was just thinking that," mused Dust. "Things have changed. We don't
get a status quo anymore. Which is half the reason I killed that bast - oh."
Dust massaged her temples. "It's still sloshing around in my head. You
should go. GOD. I just want to forget all this. I was used to mortality,
it's all I know, during the day."
"You upset the balance. Daddy's curse was for your own good - you had
to be reminded of what you did, but in a way that made it gnaw away at you."
"Doesn't mean I have to like it."
"Dust - we never enjoy our punishments."
A few moments of silence. The soil and dirt rose and flew around Dust,
surging forth and disappearing into the night air. Dust watched Ravencroft
bite her knee, in frustration; she was always eating something, gnawing on
something. At least in the old days. A very hungry person.
Finally, Dust couldn't take it anymore.
"What do you know about it? You never did anything," said Dust, her
anger rising again. The words trickled from her mouth without any control.
"You just went along, playing with lives and destroying them and fighting
with us. You never killed your brother."
"Yes." In, she breathed, and then out. Dust watched the carbon dioxide
become a mist in the cool, night air. And then, in a quiet voice that could
barely be made out, Ravencroft added, "I never killed my brother."
"But you wanted to," answered Dust, looking off into the distance.
"Like me. Wanted to. Want to. That's really why you wanted to talk to me,
isn't it? Live vicariously. You won't kill him, will you? You can't. That
was the whole point. Even if the family /has/ changed - some things stay the
same. You can't kill one of your own. You two always had to be the role
models, teaching respect to us runts of the litter. Even if that was just
another way of saying claw each other's eyes out, in those days. I'm amazed
that Mother and Father didn't kill the lot of us and start out fresh and
new."
"They couldn't - not by the end. They had changed just as much as we
had. Even Grandma."
"No. I mean - before that."
"I don't know. Maybe that's what they wanted. Get us all filled up with
fury and anger and hatred and set us out on the world in the end. Makes for
a nastier demise then all of us Getting Along Famously while we work. All
trying to outdo each other, I guess."
A moment of silence. Dust stared as the dirt danced.
"Ravencroft?"
"Yes?"
"Can I forget, now?"
They held each other's gaze, and Ravencroft stood, slowly. "I - yes. I
owe you that much, I guess." She smiled, weakly. "I'll go. You'll forget."
"And the world will go on and the birds will sing - the big, black
ravens will sing as they have always sung. Badly. Go. See this boy of yours.
Screw up his entire life."
Ravencroft nodded. The beating of wings filled Dust's ears, and then
the curse swept across her mind, clearing so much memory and pain away...
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NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:
Okay, so maybe a bit more interaction with Jen. Yes, yes. We all know you
hate me. Or are just /really/ jealous of me getting to collaborate with her
and everything. Dust is the Third Wicked? The idea kind of spawned
haphazardly, but then it grew and grew and grew and - heh.
The soundtrack at the beginning was spur of the moment. The songs just
/fit/ everybody so well. I may come up with a more over-all soundtrack for
the series if I have time to come up with a playlist.
This episode was a repeat of the "episode four" phenomenon: written in
approximately two hours, edits notwithstanding. Proofreading
notwithstanding. So, it's a little more coherent than usual, and no scene
breaks. Ravencroft just tends to inspire these episodes so easily, it seems.
Well, that and the new Tori Amos album I bought a few days ago, which is
echoing in my earphones while I type this. I know this particular type of
episode is always short, but it's really because the story flows for as long
as it can, and then ends just like that. No prior warning.
'Teens in Trenchcoats,' 'Ravencroft,' 'Luke Jones,' 'Emily Jones,' and
'Winterthorne' are all owned and created and copyrighted to Ben Rawluk,
1999, all rights reserved. 'Dust' is property of Jen Whitson, all rights
reserved. Direct any comments to poetic_wraith@hotmail.com - thanks.
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