Heroes -- Mummy Fic
Jan. 15th, 2007 08:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
teleidoplexTitle: Heroes
Rating: R (for language, mostly)
Media: Mummy - The Resurrection
Character: Eve (but only marginally)
Summary: This is an "in the margins" fic. While the PC's in the game were preparing to fight a Bane Mummy, we get a peek into how the everyday citizens of Bloomington are dealing with the Biblical plagues and the oncoming Apocalypse.
Disclaimer: White Wolf owns Mummy, Eve Salomé Carmichael is my own creation. Robert Smith belongs to Ben, who smells like a dead basketball. All the other characters in this fic are my own creation.
Heroes
An’toneé thought his mother might finally have a reason to be proud of him. She’d always despaired of him, praying to her Jesus and her empty cross to save him from all sorts of damnation. When he’d started lifting things at the age of ten, she sighed and prayed. When he started running with that gang out of Indy, she looked at him with sad eyes and prayed. When he started dealing meth, she beat her chest for the shame and prayed.
Then came the bust, cops flooding the abandoned house where they cooked, and An’toneé thought that his mother’s prayers might finally be answered. He’d just turned 20. He was a strong, handsome, proud black man. He’d be going to prison and then he’d be going to hell, just like his mother always prayed would happen. But then the Man walked in – and he was the Man, in every way possible. White, well-fed, a cop – power exuded from him. But he had something else, too. An’toneé looked at the Man and just knew that he’d finally found the faith he could never muster for his mother’s absent god and her empty cross. The Man was holy; the Divine had touched him. When the Man gave his speech, asking An’toneé and his fellow meth cookers and dealers to abandon their ways and fight for God, An’toneé didn’t hesitate. Finally, he’d found something worth believing in.
Tomorrow was the big battle. An’toneé knew he was probably going to die; all the troops did. The Man – Robert, was his name but An’toneé always thought of him as the Man – never lied to them. They knew the risks, they knew the cost, and everyone who fought was fighting by choice. The waves of Biblical plagues that had been sweeping town only bolstered them. They knew what was coming, and they knew that their fight was just.
When the Man called a gathering of all their forces at around sundown – couldn’t be sure of the time because of the perpetual Darkness – An’toneé and his crew thought it was just another rally for the troops, but then the Scary Bitch stepped forward, and An’toneé knew something else was up.
“So, yeah. I’ll just get to it. I’m not really good with the words like Robert,” she was saying. She was right, but there was something about her that just made you listen anyways. Maybe the unshakable feeling that she might rip out your throat if she thought you weren’t, “Tomorrow is the final plague, the death of the Firstborn. Lots of people in town are going to be sacrificing lambs and shit, but we don’t think that’s going to cut it.”
“I have here a cup of the blood of Christ, the lamb of god. No, I am not fucking with you,” she snarled at a few people in front who looked openly sceptical. At that, any doubts An’toneé might have had about her claim faded. He wouldn’t argue with her if she said the sun was shining brightly in the darkened sky. The Scary Bitch glared for a moment, then continued, “but Christ’s sacrifice is old, and it’s symbolic, and it’s not going to be enough to save all those people. Your sacrifice, though...your sacrifice might be.”
“All of you know that you’re probably going to die tomorrow, stopping the evil that’s coming here. You’ve all signed on, and man do I respect the hell out of each and every one of you for stepping up to that,” An’toneé raised his chin with pride as he literally felt her admiration wash over him, “I’ve spoken to a lot of people with all sorts of power recently, but in my book, you guys are the real heroes. You’re the ones who are saving this world without any hope that you’re going to survive to enjoy the world you’ve saved. And it kills me that I have to ask even more of you, but that’s just the fucked up way this world works, right?”
“The sacrifice you’re going to be making is the kind of sacrifice that could save the firstborn. I’m not going to demand it of anyone, but if you’re willing, here’s what I need you to do.”
An’toneé listened as the Scary Bitch described what she needed. After she was done, a lot of the troops looked uncomfortable and unsure. She definitely didn’t have the gift for talking to folks that the Man did. Her words were raw, and she didn’t pull any punches or try to inspire them. But there was a certain cold comfort in her stark promises of death.
Squaring his shoulders, An’toneé stepped forward and looked the Scary Bitch in the eye. She handed him a wickedly curved knife that had symbols in black tar scraped along the blade. Slicing his thumb, he held it over the cup she proffered. As his blood dripped into the already full vessel, he noticed the logo on the side and couldn’t bite back a chuckle at the absurdity of pouring his sacrifice into a pint glass from The Bluebird. He was going to die to save the world so that bad Dave Matthews cover bands could continue to play for drunken frat boys. That was some fucked up shit. The Scary Bitch smiled, as if she understood what was so funny, and for a brief moment An’toneé wasn’t afraid anymore. It allowed him to repeat the ritual phrase she’d told them to say.
“Should I fall, I give my life so that others may live free of this evil."
Blood dripping from his hand, An’toneé stepped aside so that the next soldier could commit himself to self-sacrifice. He no longer cared if he lived or died the next day. Finally, he was a son his mother could be proud of.
888888888888
Keely pounded the bottom of the can until the Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee ravioli inside came out with a strange schlurk-gloop sound. Her little brother Damon glared when she placed the bowl before him. They were both tired of eating cold food – canned soup, spagettios, chili and stuff – but there wasn’t anything else they could do. The electricity had been down for days, and Mom and Dad were just huddled in the living room praying to Jesus for salvation. It was up to Keely to take care of her brother, and if she had to bully him to get him to eat the cold food, well it was better than starving. At least she let him have all the good stuff, while she made the supreme sacrifice of eating the canned vegetables and tuna.
She was just sitting down to her cold and mushy green beans when she heard the commotion coming from the street. At first she was afraid, sure that Freddie Krueger was coming out of the darkness to get her, but then she realized that it was a voice, shouting over a bullhorn. It sounded like her principal when the school would have assemblies. Keely and Damon rushed to the front room window to see what was going on.
They’d pulled the curtains closed after the animals started dying. Looking out into the streets was too scary and gross. But it had been there for so many days that Keely was used to it. Looking out hardly bothered her anymore. It was hard to see through the darkness, but eventually a dim flashlight glimmered through the black and she was able to see who was calling through the bullhorn. For the first time in several days hope began to fill her.
A man and a woman were walking down the street through the muck. The man with the bullhorn looked like Tyrese except that he was even better looking. The woman was dressed like a cop and shone the flashlight’s beam around to spot people in the gloom.
“We’re here to help you get through this. We need everyone to come out of their houses and go to the Baptist church over on Rogers. Come out and we’ll help get you there.”
Keely hesitated. If it were just the man she wouldn’t go out no matter how good-looking he was, cause her parents had warned her about what men like him might do to her. If it was just the cop she wouldn’t go out because cops took you to jail and she didn’t want to go to jail. But with the two of them she felt safer, as if one would stop the other from hurting her.
“C’mon,” she grabbed her little brother by the arm and pulled him out to catch the two people. She thought she’d gotten used to the smell, but opening the front door made her gag. Once she got over her rush of sickness, she called out desperately to the people and began slip-sliding her way through the muck, trying to catch them before they disappeared into the Darkness.
The light bobbed before her, then she was enveloped in its dim glow, and the Tyrese look-alike was kneeling in the sludge and grabbing her and her brother to keep them both from falling.
“Hey, I got you. It’s alright,” he said. All of Keely’s bravery fled. After so many days of being stuck in her house, taking care of Damon and not able to get any rational response from her parents, having a grown-up to suddenly take over meant she could give in and just be a scared little girl again. She began sobbing.
“We’ve…been…hiding…home…for…days,” she snuffled through her explanation.
“Where are your parents?” the cop asked.
“Inside. Praying,” Keely answered, slowly getting herself under control, “they realized a few days ago that me or my brother was going to die, and they just started praying. They won’t stop.” The man stood and took her hand, nodding at the woman as he pulled out his own flashlight. The cop headed back towards Keely’s house while the man looked around.
“Anyone else on this street?” he asked.
“No. I don’t think so. It’s just us. Everyone else has left or gone to church or somewhere else.”
“Right,” the man squeezed her hand. His palm was large, and comforting. Keely squeezed back, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Officer Clarke is getting your folks, and we’re going to take you to the church where they can pray. Praying’s good. We need you to pray for the light to defeat the darkness. But there are other folks there that can take care of you and your little brother until this battle’s over. What’s your name?”
“Keely,” she told the brave man who was starting to look more beautiful to her than Jesus.
“I promise, Keely,” he grinned reassuringly, a flash of white in the gloom, “you and your brother are going to be fine.”
888888888888888888888888
It had been a long trek through the most disgusting organic sludge, but here near the borders of town the going was easier. Fewer animals to die out here, and it looked like the rain of frogs here might have been more of a drizzle. Most of the sludge out here had been washed away by the melting hailstones, leaving the road more or less clean. Officer Sarah Clarke took her first deep breath of fresh air in days. It had been a hard night, but this moment alone was almost worth it.
“We’re almost there,” her companion noted, his voice a deep thrum in the gloom that still surrounded them. She tried to peer past the few feet of dim illumination that her mag-lite provided, but it was too hard to tell. She’d just have to trust that he knew what he was talking about.
It was strange to trust An’toneé. Even stranger to discover that she liked him…was attracted to him, even. She’d been part of the strike team that had busted the meth lab where he was a low-level enforcer and general lackey. She’d been surprised as anyone when several of the young men, including An’toneé, decided to join Detective Smith’s cause. At first she thought they just wanted to stay out of jail, but An’toneé’s entire crew had proved themselves time and again to be brave, dedicated and trustworthy. Robert Smith had looked on them and seen something there that none of his fellow officers would have believed. This was a group of young men who were willing to die for a holy cause.
More than any of the other proofs that Detective Smith had offered, it was this sea-change that gave Sarah faith.
She’d worked with An’toneé a lot over the past months, and sometimes they even got past the cop/perp divide and into a nebulous realm that could be called friendship, and might resemble flirting. But somehow they both ended up keeping their distance. Tonight they had a job to finish, and tomorrow they were going to die. She found herself wistfully wishing that she had found the courage at some point to break the barriers between them.
“There,” he said, breaking through her regrets to point through the gloom. She could barely make out the junction, but it looked like he was right. She pulled out the small Tupperware container and spongebrush that they’d been given for this mission.
They both stopped in the middle of the T-intersection where the 48 met the 750. It was one of the main arteries into town, and along with the doorway of every church and meeting hall where the people of town had been gathered, they were supposed to mark the intersection with the symbol of the sun using the blood they’d been given. The blood both she and An’toneé had contributed to through their sacrifice.
“We want it to be big, but we want to be careful not to run out of blood. Here, let me do it,” An’toneé reached out for the Tupperware and brush.
“Why you?” Sarah asked as she handed over the instruments. An’toneé grinned up at her, and her belly did a tiny flip-flop at the flash of straight white teeth in his dark face.
“Girl, I’ve been tagging since before you were reading Teen Beat and listening to the Backstreet Boyz. I know how to make paint last.”
“Right,” she said with an answering smile, standing aside to give him access to his asphalt canvas. He painted the sigil quickly then handed the brush and empty bowl back to her.
“Well, that’s it then. I suppose we’ll know tomorrow if it works,” she said looking over the sigil.
“You firstborn?” he asked.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah,” they were both silent for a moment as they gazed at the flimsy bit of graffiti that was supposed to preserve their lives so that they could die the next day. His hand nudged at her side, warm fingers threading through hers. When she looked over to him, his smile was soft, understanding. “Don’t worry. It’ll work. Have faith.”
She swayed slightly towards him as his confidence bolstered hers. All it would take would be a step, a tug of her hand, and they could both celebrate life one last time before the end. But the darkness pressed around her, the foreboding sense that had been growing all week nibbled at the edges of her psyche, creating pockets of fear. Instead, she squeezed his hand and released it, stepping back.
“Right. We don’t have much time to get back before dawn, and we still have a lot to do to prepare for the fight. Let’s move out,” she began striding into the Darkness back towards base, and after a moment he followed quietly in her wake. Sarah sighed. Dying with regrets. She supposed that was just how life worked.
Rating: R (for language, mostly)
Media: Mummy - The Resurrection
Character: Eve (but only marginally)
Summary: This is an "in the margins" fic. While the PC's in the game were preparing to fight a Bane Mummy, we get a peek into how the everyday citizens of Bloomington are dealing with the Biblical plagues and the oncoming Apocalypse.
Disclaimer: White Wolf owns Mummy, Eve Salomé Carmichael is my own creation. Robert Smith belongs to Ben, who smells like a dead basketball. All the other characters in this fic are my own creation.
Heroes
An’toneé thought his mother might finally have a reason to be proud of him. She’d always despaired of him, praying to her Jesus and her empty cross to save him from all sorts of damnation. When he’d started lifting things at the age of ten, she sighed and prayed. When he started running with that gang out of Indy, she looked at him with sad eyes and prayed. When he started dealing meth, she beat her chest for the shame and prayed.
Then came the bust, cops flooding the abandoned house where they cooked, and An’toneé thought that his mother’s prayers might finally be answered. He’d just turned 20. He was a strong, handsome, proud black man. He’d be going to prison and then he’d be going to hell, just like his mother always prayed would happen. But then the Man walked in – and he was the Man, in every way possible. White, well-fed, a cop – power exuded from him. But he had something else, too. An’toneé looked at the Man and just knew that he’d finally found the faith he could never muster for his mother’s absent god and her empty cross. The Man was holy; the Divine had touched him. When the Man gave his speech, asking An’toneé and his fellow meth cookers and dealers to abandon their ways and fight for God, An’toneé didn’t hesitate. Finally, he’d found something worth believing in.
Tomorrow was the big battle. An’toneé knew he was probably going to die; all the troops did. The Man – Robert, was his name but An’toneé always thought of him as the Man – never lied to them. They knew the risks, they knew the cost, and everyone who fought was fighting by choice. The waves of Biblical plagues that had been sweeping town only bolstered them. They knew what was coming, and they knew that their fight was just.
When the Man called a gathering of all their forces at around sundown – couldn’t be sure of the time because of the perpetual Darkness – An’toneé and his crew thought it was just another rally for the troops, but then the Scary Bitch stepped forward, and An’toneé knew something else was up.
“So, yeah. I’ll just get to it. I’m not really good with the words like Robert,” she was saying. She was right, but there was something about her that just made you listen anyways. Maybe the unshakable feeling that she might rip out your throat if she thought you weren’t, “Tomorrow is the final plague, the death of the Firstborn. Lots of people in town are going to be sacrificing lambs and shit, but we don’t think that’s going to cut it.”
“I have here a cup of the blood of Christ, the lamb of god. No, I am not fucking with you,” she snarled at a few people in front who looked openly sceptical. At that, any doubts An’toneé might have had about her claim faded. He wouldn’t argue with her if she said the sun was shining brightly in the darkened sky. The Scary Bitch glared for a moment, then continued, “but Christ’s sacrifice is old, and it’s symbolic, and it’s not going to be enough to save all those people. Your sacrifice, though...your sacrifice might be.”
“All of you know that you’re probably going to die tomorrow, stopping the evil that’s coming here. You’ve all signed on, and man do I respect the hell out of each and every one of you for stepping up to that,” An’toneé raised his chin with pride as he literally felt her admiration wash over him, “I’ve spoken to a lot of people with all sorts of power recently, but in my book, you guys are the real heroes. You’re the ones who are saving this world without any hope that you’re going to survive to enjoy the world you’ve saved. And it kills me that I have to ask even more of you, but that’s just the fucked up way this world works, right?”
“The sacrifice you’re going to be making is the kind of sacrifice that could save the firstborn. I’m not going to demand it of anyone, but if you’re willing, here’s what I need you to do.”
An’toneé listened as the Scary Bitch described what she needed. After she was done, a lot of the troops looked uncomfortable and unsure. She definitely didn’t have the gift for talking to folks that the Man did. Her words were raw, and she didn’t pull any punches or try to inspire them. But there was a certain cold comfort in her stark promises of death.
Squaring his shoulders, An’toneé stepped forward and looked the Scary Bitch in the eye. She handed him a wickedly curved knife that had symbols in black tar scraped along the blade. Slicing his thumb, he held it over the cup she proffered. As his blood dripped into the already full vessel, he noticed the logo on the side and couldn’t bite back a chuckle at the absurdity of pouring his sacrifice into a pint glass from The Bluebird. He was going to die to save the world so that bad Dave Matthews cover bands could continue to play for drunken frat boys. That was some fucked up shit. The Scary Bitch smiled, as if she understood what was so funny, and for a brief moment An’toneé wasn’t afraid anymore. It allowed him to repeat the ritual phrase she’d told them to say.
“Should I fall, I give my life so that others may live free of this evil."
Blood dripping from his hand, An’toneé stepped aside so that the next soldier could commit himself to self-sacrifice. He no longer cared if he lived or died the next day. Finally, he was a son his mother could be proud of.
888888888888
Keely pounded the bottom of the can until the Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee ravioli inside came out with a strange schlurk-gloop sound. Her little brother Damon glared when she placed the bowl before him. They were both tired of eating cold food – canned soup, spagettios, chili and stuff – but there wasn’t anything else they could do. The electricity had been down for days, and Mom and Dad were just huddled in the living room praying to Jesus for salvation. It was up to Keely to take care of her brother, and if she had to bully him to get him to eat the cold food, well it was better than starving. At least she let him have all the good stuff, while she made the supreme sacrifice of eating the canned vegetables and tuna.
She was just sitting down to her cold and mushy green beans when she heard the commotion coming from the street. At first she was afraid, sure that Freddie Krueger was coming out of the darkness to get her, but then she realized that it was a voice, shouting over a bullhorn. It sounded like her principal when the school would have assemblies. Keely and Damon rushed to the front room window to see what was going on.
They’d pulled the curtains closed after the animals started dying. Looking out into the streets was too scary and gross. But it had been there for so many days that Keely was used to it. Looking out hardly bothered her anymore. It was hard to see through the darkness, but eventually a dim flashlight glimmered through the black and she was able to see who was calling through the bullhorn. For the first time in several days hope began to fill her.
A man and a woman were walking down the street through the muck. The man with the bullhorn looked like Tyrese except that he was even better looking. The woman was dressed like a cop and shone the flashlight’s beam around to spot people in the gloom.
“We’re here to help you get through this. We need everyone to come out of their houses and go to the Baptist church over on Rogers. Come out and we’ll help get you there.”
Keely hesitated. If it were just the man she wouldn’t go out no matter how good-looking he was, cause her parents had warned her about what men like him might do to her. If it was just the cop she wouldn’t go out because cops took you to jail and she didn’t want to go to jail. But with the two of them she felt safer, as if one would stop the other from hurting her.
“C’mon,” she grabbed her little brother by the arm and pulled him out to catch the two people. She thought she’d gotten used to the smell, but opening the front door made her gag. Once she got over her rush of sickness, she called out desperately to the people and began slip-sliding her way through the muck, trying to catch them before they disappeared into the Darkness.
The light bobbed before her, then she was enveloped in its dim glow, and the Tyrese look-alike was kneeling in the sludge and grabbing her and her brother to keep them both from falling.
“Hey, I got you. It’s alright,” he said. All of Keely’s bravery fled. After so many days of being stuck in her house, taking care of Damon and not able to get any rational response from her parents, having a grown-up to suddenly take over meant she could give in and just be a scared little girl again. She began sobbing.
“We’ve…been…hiding…home…for…days,” she snuffled through her explanation.
“Where are your parents?” the cop asked.
“Inside. Praying,” Keely answered, slowly getting herself under control, “they realized a few days ago that me or my brother was going to die, and they just started praying. They won’t stop.” The man stood and took her hand, nodding at the woman as he pulled out his own flashlight. The cop headed back towards Keely’s house while the man looked around.
“Anyone else on this street?” he asked.
“No. I don’t think so. It’s just us. Everyone else has left or gone to church or somewhere else.”
“Right,” the man squeezed her hand. His palm was large, and comforting. Keely squeezed back, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Officer Clarke is getting your folks, and we’re going to take you to the church where they can pray. Praying’s good. We need you to pray for the light to defeat the darkness. But there are other folks there that can take care of you and your little brother until this battle’s over. What’s your name?”
“Keely,” she told the brave man who was starting to look more beautiful to her than Jesus.
“I promise, Keely,” he grinned reassuringly, a flash of white in the gloom, “you and your brother are going to be fine.”
888888888888888888888888
It had been a long trek through the most disgusting organic sludge, but here near the borders of town the going was easier. Fewer animals to die out here, and it looked like the rain of frogs here might have been more of a drizzle. Most of the sludge out here had been washed away by the melting hailstones, leaving the road more or less clean. Officer Sarah Clarke took her first deep breath of fresh air in days. It had been a hard night, but this moment alone was almost worth it.
“We’re almost there,” her companion noted, his voice a deep thrum in the gloom that still surrounded them. She tried to peer past the few feet of dim illumination that her mag-lite provided, but it was too hard to tell. She’d just have to trust that he knew what he was talking about.
It was strange to trust An’toneé. Even stranger to discover that she liked him…was attracted to him, even. She’d been part of the strike team that had busted the meth lab where he was a low-level enforcer and general lackey. She’d been surprised as anyone when several of the young men, including An’toneé, decided to join Detective Smith’s cause. At first she thought they just wanted to stay out of jail, but An’toneé’s entire crew had proved themselves time and again to be brave, dedicated and trustworthy. Robert Smith had looked on them and seen something there that none of his fellow officers would have believed. This was a group of young men who were willing to die for a holy cause.
More than any of the other proofs that Detective Smith had offered, it was this sea-change that gave Sarah faith.
She’d worked with An’toneé a lot over the past months, and sometimes they even got past the cop/perp divide and into a nebulous realm that could be called friendship, and might resemble flirting. But somehow they both ended up keeping their distance. Tonight they had a job to finish, and tomorrow they were going to die. She found herself wistfully wishing that she had found the courage at some point to break the barriers between them.
“There,” he said, breaking through her regrets to point through the gloom. She could barely make out the junction, but it looked like he was right. She pulled out the small Tupperware container and spongebrush that they’d been given for this mission.
They both stopped in the middle of the T-intersection where the 48 met the 750. It was one of the main arteries into town, and along with the doorway of every church and meeting hall where the people of town had been gathered, they were supposed to mark the intersection with the symbol of the sun using the blood they’d been given. The blood both she and An’toneé had contributed to through their sacrifice.
“We want it to be big, but we want to be careful not to run out of blood. Here, let me do it,” An’toneé reached out for the Tupperware and brush.
“Why you?” Sarah asked as she handed over the instruments. An’toneé grinned up at her, and her belly did a tiny flip-flop at the flash of straight white teeth in his dark face.
“Girl, I’ve been tagging since before you were reading Teen Beat and listening to the Backstreet Boyz. I know how to make paint last.”
“Right,” she said with an answering smile, standing aside to give him access to his asphalt canvas. He painted the sigil quickly then handed the brush and empty bowl back to her.
“Well, that’s it then. I suppose we’ll know tomorrow if it works,” she said looking over the sigil.
“You firstborn?” he asked.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah,” they were both silent for a moment as they gazed at the flimsy bit of graffiti that was supposed to preserve their lives so that they could die the next day. His hand nudged at her side, warm fingers threading through hers. When she looked over to him, his smile was soft, understanding. “Don’t worry. It’ll work. Have faith.”
She swayed slightly towards him as his confidence bolstered hers. All it would take would be a step, a tug of her hand, and they could both celebrate life one last time before the end. But the darkness pressed around her, the foreboding sense that had been growing all week nibbled at the edges of her psyche, creating pockets of fear. Instead, she squeezed his hand and released it, stepping back.
“Right. We don’t have much time to get back before dawn, and we still have a lot to do to prepare for the fight. Let’s move out,” she began striding into the Darkness back towards base, and after a moment he followed quietly in her wake. Sarah sighed. Dying with regrets. She supposed that was just how life worked.
