sunnydalealum (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sunnydalealum) wrote2007-04-29 07:54 pm
sunnydalealum) wrote2007-04-29 07:54 pm
Entry tags:
An Evening Encounter
Lower Manhattan
May 24, 2005, 11:48pm
The problem with late-night extracurricular is that you're stuck heading back to your dorm late at night. Beth keeps her best don't-mess-with-me face on, keeps her stride brisk and aggressive like the Women's Self-Defense instructor recommends, and measures the walk ahead with her eyes. One more block here, then cross the street to where it's better lit and another block, then she's in the well-populated area till she reaches the dorm.
This street's all but completely deserted. There's nobody there, and there's nobody there, and then between one breath and the next there's a man in front of her. Beth jerks to a halt bare inches from walking right into him, and bites back a little scream.
"Sorry," he says, with an apologetic grin. He's young, maybe in his early twenties, with shaggy blond hair and a soul-patch. "I'm sorry, I -- I was wondering if maybe you could help me? I'm a little lost."
She doesn't answer for a moment, trying to get her breath back and calm down her pounding heart. It doesn't want to calm down. "Where were you trying to get to?" she asks, stalling.
"Friend of mine's throwing a party tonight, somewhere around here. I'm looking for the West 4th subway station? I can probably find my way from there." His tone's polite and hopeful, but his eyes never leave her face and there's an intensity in them she doesn't like at all.
Say no. No, don't even bother to say no, just step around him and run like hell.
She edges sideways and collides with a solid body, recoiling back with a gasp. It's another young man, shorter and stockier, and his grin isn't the slightest bit apologetic or polite.
Something makes her turn around before she hears or feels anything. There's a third man, and a fourth. And a fifth.
"You know what," the blond one says, "maybe we'll just throw our own party." He takes a step closer to her, his smile going predatory. "You like that idea, huh? You wanna party with us?"
Oh god, she thinks in frightened despair -- and then another internal voice snaps at her, stop that. You're two short blocks from a major intersection. There'll be people there. You can get past these guys. Run.
Beth doesn't give herself time to think, just swings her bookbag as hard as she can into the blond one's face, fakes left, and dodges right, all in one motion. She expects the impact when her bag, weighted with textbooks, hits his face; she doesn't expect the crunch.
And she doesn't expect him to reach out with one hand, even while howling in pain and clutching his broken nose with the other, and grab her hair as she tries to dodge past him. The momentum throws her off balance, and she stumbles to her knees.
But what she really doesn't expect is how distorted his face is when his hand falls: forehead ridged, nose furrowed even above where it's broken, lips drawn back from jagged teeth. She has just time to think in dizzy horror I did that, I changed his face somehow when I hit him, before realizing that all five of them have undergone the same change.
He twists his handful of her hair, forcing her head painfully sideways, and wipes the blood from his nose. "All right," and even his voice sounds different now, feral somehow. "You just lost any chance of getting out of this alive. Or quickly." He leans in, his mouth opening, and the jagged teeth look hideously sharp as a mouthful of broken razor blades --
There's a hiss, and a muffled thud, and his eyes jerk wide for just a moment ... and then he seems to fall apart, to disintegrate into a heap of dust before her eyes. The painful grip on her hair slackens and is gone.
A few yards down the sidewalk behind him stand two unfamiliar women about Beth's age, the foremost pointing what looks like some kind of bow and arrow. "Okay, first word BACK," she announces loudly, "second word OFF."
"Third word BITCHES," adds the other girl, helpfully; this one's holding a sharpened wooden stake in each hand, and grinning fiercely.
The short one's staring at the heap of dust that used to be a man, and when he looks up there is flat murder in his yellow eyes. "Get them," he bites off.
It's four against two; against three, maybe, but Beth isn't sure she can even stand up, let alone fight, and she wants to shout at them to run as the four men advance. The first woman's bow (a crossbow, is that what those are called?) twangs and the short one lurches back into the wall, a wooden shaft protruding from his shoulder, and then the other three are charging, and the standoff disintegrates into an ugly welter of hand-to-hand.
Despite the mismatched numbers, it's nearly an even fight for nearly a minute -- until that twang-and-zzzip sound comes again from behind the three, and another of them disintegrates into dust. "Go!" a voice shouts, and three more young women come running up from that direction.
After that, the rest of it's over in seconds.
"You all right?" the first woman asks Beth, leaning to offer her a hand up.
"I --" Her voice fails her entirely. She nods, instead, and reaches up to try to pull herself to her feet.
"I'm Brianna. You dorm nearby? Do you need a walk home?"
"Hang on a sec," says one of the three latecomers, a little sharply, staring at Brianna. "Who the hell are you?"
"Might ask you the same," Brianna says back, not sharp but abruptly wary. "You're not in my division, are you?"
"Division?" That's another of the three, an Asian girl with a blue streak in her black hair. "What're you talking about? Who's your Watcher?"
Brianna and her companion stiffen at that. "Come on," mutters the other to her, low and tight. "Let's go. Beth, come on, we'll get you home."
"You go with her, Erica," Brianna mutters back, matching her tone. "I'll stay and talk to them."
"...okay," Erica says slowly. "Okay. Be careful. Beth?"
Beth looks back and forth between Brianna and the other three women, one of whom is looking uneasily back at her. "Yeah," she says finally, struggling against a sudden ridiculous urge to burst into tears. "Yes, please. Take me home."
"You're gonna be okay," Erica tells her, taking her by the arm and steering her down the sidewalk, away from the inexplicable tension and the impossible piles of dust, already dissipating in the night breeze. "Trust me. You're gonna be okay."
May 24, 2005, 11:48pm
The problem with late-night extracurricular is that you're stuck heading back to your dorm late at night. Beth keeps her best don't-mess-with-me face on, keeps her stride brisk and aggressive like the Women's Self-Defense instructor recommends, and measures the walk ahead with her eyes. One more block here, then cross the street to where it's better lit and another block, then she's in the well-populated area till she reaches the dorm.
This street's all but completely deserted. There's nobody there, and there's nobody there, and then between one breath and the next there's a man in front of her. Beth jerks to a halt bare inches from walking right into him, and bites back a little scream.
"Sorry," he says, with an apologetic grin. He's young, maybe in his early twenties, with shaggy blond hair and a soul-patch. "I'm sorry, I -- I was wondering if maybe you could help me? I'm a little lost."
She doesn't answer for a moment, trying to get her breath back and calm down her pounding heart. It doesn't want to calm down. "Where were you trying to get to?" she asks, stalling.
"Friend of mine's throwing a party tonight, somewhere around here. I'm looking for the West 4th subway station? I can probably find my way from there." His tone's polite and hopeful, but his eyes never leave her face and there's an intensity in them she doesn't like at all.
Say no. No, don't even bother to say no, just step around him and run like hell.
She edges sideways and collides with a solid body, recoiling back with a gasp. It's another young man, shorter and stockier, and his grin isn't the slightest bit apologetic or polite.
Something makes her turn around before she hears or feels anything. There's a third man, and a fourth. And a fifth.
"You know what," the blond one says, "maybe we'll just throw our own party." He takes a step closer to her, his smile going predatory. "You like that idea, huh? You wanna party with us?"
Oh god, she thinks in frightened despair -- and then another internal voice snaps at her, stop that. You're two short blocks from a major intersection. There'll be people there. You can get past these guys. Run.
Beth doesn't give herself time to think, just swings her bookbag as hard as she can into the blond one's face, fakes left, and dodges right, all in one motion. She expects the impact when her bag, weighted with textbooks, hits his face; she doesn't expect the crunch.
And she doesn't expect him to reach out with one hand, even while howling in pain and clutching his broken nose with the other, and grab her hair as she tries to dodge past him. The momentum throws her off balance, and she stumbles to her knees.
But what she really doesn't expect is how distorted his face is when his hand falls: forehead ridged, nose furrowed even above where it's broken, lips drawn back from jagged teeth. She has just time to think in dizzy horror I did that, I changed his face somehow when I hit him, before realizing that all five of them have undergone the same change.
He twists his handful of her hair, forcing her head painfully sideways, and wipes the blood from his nose. "All right," and even his voice sounds different now, feral somehow. "You just lost any chance of getting out of this alive. Or quickly." He leans in, his mouth opening, and the jagged teeth look hideously sharp as a mouthful of broken razor blades --
There's a hiss, and a muffled thud, and his eyes jerk wide for just a moment ... and then he seems to fall apart, to disintegrate into a heap of dust before her eyes. The painful grip on her hair slackens and is gone.
The short one's staring at the heap of dust that used to be a man, and when he looks up there is flat murder in his yellow eyes. "Get them," he bites off.
It's four against two; against three, maybe, but Beth isn't sure she can even stand up, let alone fight, and she wants to shout at them to run as the four men advance. The first woman's bow (a crossbow, is that what those are called?) twangs and the short one lurches back into the wall, a wooden shaft protruding from his shoulder, and then the other three are charging, and the standoff disintegrates into an ugly welter of hand-to-hand.
Despite the mismatched numbers, it's nearly an even fight for nearly a minute -- until that twang-and-zzzip sound comes again from behind the three, and another of them disintegrates into dust. "Go!" a voice shouts, and three more young women come running up from that direction.
After that, the rest of it's over in seconds.
"You all right?" the first woman asks Beth, leaning to offer her a hand up.
"I --" Her voice fails her entirely. She nods, instead, and reaches up to try to pull herself to her feet.
"I'm Brianna. You dorm nearby? Do you need a walk home?"
"Might ask you the same," Brianna says back, not sharp but abruptly wary. "You're not in my division, are you?"
Brianna and her companion stiffen at that. "Come on," mutters the other to her, low and tight. "Let's go. Beth, come on, we'll get you home."
"You go with her, Erica," Brianna mutters back, matching her tone. "I'll stay and talk to them."
"...okay," Erica says slowly. "Okay. Be careful. Beth?"
Beth looks back and forth between Brianna and the other three women, one of whom is looking uneasily back at her. "Yeah," she says finally, struggling against a sudden ridiculous urge to burst into tears. "Yes, please. Take me home."
"You're gonna be okay," Erica tells her, taking her by the arm and steering her down the sidewalk, away from the inexplicable tension and the impossible piles of dust, already dissipating in the night breeze. "Trust me. You're gonna be okay."