Lull

General Summary

If Clem looked to the left, they could see through the metallic slats of the make shift wall into the mire of Fenfield. A constant cloudy haze of sickly green gloom hung over the bog and the smell of rot clung to everything from the gnarled black trees which hung low and stretched across the deceptively deep pools of water to the bright yellow wildflowers no bigger than a thumbnail that were nauseatingly poisonous when inhaled too directly. The ground was half-submerged with purple and brown tinged foliage ravenously battling for the few patches of land which remained above the surface.

If Clem looked to the right, they could see the burnt-out ruins that constituted The Roc. Fancy houses which used to support a life of modern comfort were now crumbling and half blown to pieces. In the distance, they could hear the eternal conflict of a gang war which could never quite settle down. It didn’t take a trained eye to spot the wayward souls wandering through the ruins of suburbia in military gear toting insignia of whichever hill they decided was worth dying on.

But Clem didn’t look left or right. Instead, they kept their eyes fixed on the road ahead, where the feintest hint of a dust cloud had come into view. It was morning and the dark periwinkle sky bled to turquoise by the time it hit the horizon. The early blue light fought with the red on their body, their hair, and their clothes. The stark contrast with the land around them made Clem uncomfortable, but they drove their caravan of miscreants forward, straddling the line between swamp and combat.

They had only been on the road for twenty minutes, and already their companions’ minds and eyes had drifted elsewhere. Clem tore themself from the road for just a moment to confirm the half asleep, glazed over expressions of their colleagues. The enticing call of sleep had taken them, but its lure couldn’t possibly reach Clem – not when they were plugged in.

Driving through the pathetic excuse for a street kicked up dust from the ground and burned their eyes as they drove. The familiar metallic taste in their mouth and the texture of the wheel like dried skin propelled them onward. They attempted to take a deep breath and were promptly greeted with a sharp pain in their back. The message was clear – there was no time for relaxing. Their eyes darted downward out of reflex, confirming that the culprit preventing their respiration was the device fueling the vehicle. Shining as brightly as it did the day they first stabbed themself in, was a thick metal stake protruding from their chest.

It had been too long since Clem last submitted their blood to the vehicle, and the strain pushed them both forward. Even the thirsty demand of the engine after days of starvation was bearable – significantly better even, than their first go-round a few years back when they had to rip their brother’s corpse from the driver seat mere seconds before stabbing themself in. Nobody could prepare a driver to experience the entire vehicle’s lifetime as they started the engine.

Clem tapped the tip of the stake with their middle finger, partially for the sensation and partially for the rhythm of tapping. They thought of the far too visceral starting procedure. The icy point of a blade on their back, then the all familiar screams of a boy giving his last ounce of blood to save his sister. Sliding back through wars, wars, wars, and twisting the key in the ignition as their back hit the seat behind them – the sound of bones breaking and necks snapping, and a stutter stop before the engine roared to life.

The angry touch of a machine scorned was enough to break the gates which held Clem back, and all the fear and anger and grief which they held so close to their chest had nowhere to go but out. The betrayal of being given up for status. The terror of leaving home. The loss of their brother, the last family they had left, giving his life to save their skin. They couldn’t have known that the engine he fed would entangle them in a profession that might require their life as forfeit too if they weren’t careful.

The only reason they had agreed to do such dangerous work in the first place was to ‘serve his memory’ as their employer had pitched it to them. What a bunch of crap that was. He was gone, and Clem was still there. Their white knuckles gripped the wheel so hard they felt the entire rig might break into pieces. The pain echoed through the rest of their body as they strained against the hole in their heart too big to name.

And now they were here – on some god forsaken mission to steal something from someone because of a debt owed to some freak. Clem bit the inside of their mouth at such a cruel thought. He’s not ‘some freak’, they thought, you got worked up and cut yourself too deep. He saved you. They glanced at the masked man drowsily reclining in the back seat. Combined with a half-naked sniper and a drug dealer, Clem laughed in spite of themself – this was the first crowd they’d run with where they didn’t stick out.

A bump in the road jostled them out of their introspective haze – sending a jolt of pain up their spine. Their mind always seemed to wander as they drove, sometimes through their own memories and sometimes through the memories of those previously behind the wheel. Clem shouldered past the ache in their rib cage and refocused on the path ahead.

The dust cloud on the horizon grew larger. Trouble said something deep within them. A trouble that demands an answer. The anger bubbles up from their chest, gnawing at the bit and pulling at the chains. And they smile. And they grit their teeth. And they gun it forward, leaving nothing behind but soot and the faint smell of ash.

Character(s) interacted with

Iza Frit Callagh Roxxanne

Report Date

25 Feb 2019

Primary Location

Ron Dequois

Secondary Location

Yeast Ave