Icon of Coil: freight train of silver bullets [decker-salome]

October 10, 2002

freight train of silver bullets [decker-salome]

[north jersey]

(asher)

mismatched gaze lays in latent wait beneath half-mast lides dropped down til blond lashes almost kiss young cheeks, arms threaded (crucified) over the back of the busbench providing clear landing upon which the Dancer sprawls

watching
waiting
(venomous cobra)
..... admiring what's across the street

such sweet young children (candy) enraptured their game of twilight basketball, and the idle thought prevails (are any even approaching legal) snaking lightning in the darkened shadows creepcrawling in the Galliard's mind, a personal storm brewing on event's horizon, betrayed not in the relaxed cross of tankboot clad ankles, the baggy jeans wilting against the wood bench, the shirt hanging open across bare (scarred) belly

their laughter (yellow)
their smiles (white)
oh..... how he can imagine their screams (red)

(salome)
Sometimes its hard to tell the difference between reality and dreams... everything seems to slide together, fading into a perpetual twilight of existance until it's all just a mass hallucination that continues its pantomime and leaves you far behind. What was real? What wasn't? How could you ever be completely sure when you know the monsters that savage themselves in the shadows in endless battles of domination? It could make a person look at every lingering shadow, every whisper of a breeze through the trees, every person on the street and wonder where the beasts were hiding today. Or was it just all in the mind? Who cares?

She'd been on a futile search for months now, taking only the occasional work to make ends meet, and nothing. There was no trail that her dull (or so she kept being told) sense could pick up. He'd eluded her again. Anger roiled in the pit of her stomach and oozed a mental venom through her system, poisoning her body and mind.

With one arm cradled over her midrift, thumb occasionally rubbing against the material of the t-shirt, she walks the streets in sullen silence.

(decker)
There's a beat-up old truck parked just down the street from the basketball game, one of those rusty affairs that every hick seems to have. This one's still running - barely - not that you'd be able to tell at the moment. The engine's off, and slouching on the dented, rusty tailgate is the driver, a muscular youth a month away from his nineteenth birthday, grey-eyed and hard-mouthed, the stubble of a day without shaving roughening his strong jaw. Goodlooking boy, if he didn't have those eyes. That glance.

A calloused hand, the knuckles split from an earlier fight, pulls the joint up to his lips. He's smoking like a chimney these days to keep the anger down. Even so his rage glows like an invisible blowtorch, withering all who came too close. He watches the kids run back and forth, screaming and laughing, a few of them already saying the words that'd make a schoolmarm blush. One of the boys misses a catch and the old basketball comes bouncing out. Weather-faded almost peach in color and worn until all the dimples on its surface were smooth, it thuds on the sidewalk, splashes into the muddy gutter before Decker lifts a foot and stops it lightly. Almost thoughtfully. His one arm is folded over his flat abdomen, just over the waistline of his lowslung army-surplus pants. The other holds the joint to his lips, thumb, index and middle fingers forming a loose O as his cheek hollows out beneath the hard, sharp slash of his distinctly nordic cheekbones on the inhale.

A couple of the kids have run out now. They form an unconscious semicircle around him, fifteen feet away, and are nervously silent, their eyes wide. Decker lifts his gaze from the ball to the boys. Did he ever play basketball? He couldn't remember. If he did, it was too long ago to matter.

A flick of his foot sends the basketball flying up at the nearest kid, who catches it with a hollow thump against his narrow chest. The semicircle, staring and dreadfully fascinated, doesn't disperse until Decker blows out a cloud of smoke and slurs, somewhere between lazy and irritated, "Get lost."

(asher)
how the children play (strain and sweat, blood and tears) raptly organizing their own game, their bubbling laughter an eclectic symphony that needs only the slightest touch to become a cacophany of the most violent (sweetest) sounds

perhaps the four were not enough
he seems to search (crave) something more
pink tongue edges to pull poet's lips into (Fate's) faint smile

the trail of the ball a moth's waning arch before flame's consumation
orange contrasting blue until withering beneath gray (dead) glare

what have we here (i can see your rage) interesting peaking within the lean blond, head tilting in almost canid curiosity before its distracted by a waft (perfume) of something else in the air, breath filling lungs with the warmth (sludge) of intixication's anger (or is it anger's intoxication)

the girl (woman? would it matter...) approaching draws the slight smile into a fond (molesting) sneer

tonight may not be so boring after all....

(sal)
She was once again alone in her pursuits and whether it was a good or bad thing was up for continual debate. Ayla, she assumed, had returned to her own people. Siophe had been recalled by their "family". They were the only two people in the world that really existed for her. Them and the Storm Bringer. But he... he she wanted to hurt. The dreams of the pain she would inflict if she ever caught up with the sonuvabitch sometimes so engulfed her it was like the scene truly took place, but the ending - the waking - only brought that bittersweet taste to her mouth that told her that she still had a long way to go before it would be real. Tangible. Complete.

Rusty brown colored hair slides into her face in strands, more so on one side than the other as if she was tilting her head subconsciously to allow her hair to cover up something that she wanted hidden from the world around her. Her eyes were dark-circled from nightmare plagued sleep that woke her feeling more restless and ill-at-ease. Her gait, her stance, her whole form radiated a sullen anger that was subtly turned antagonistic towards any that got to close.

(decker)
...and the circle disperses. Children go back to their games, calling each other the names they'll call each other for the rest of their lives. They form the bonds that turn into gang ties, and they form the enmities that'll one day leave some of them dead on Imogen's table, long before their time. And Garou, they're just the same, only glorified.

The tip of the joint glows red as a demon's eye before a chunk breaks away, breaks apart, and hits the ground as a snowfall of ash. As though this were some kind of cue, Decker glances at the plastic $2 watch strapped to his wrist. 6pm. He eases his weight off the tailgate, one side and then the other, leaves the joint between his teeth and pulls his arms over his head in a stretch that pops joints all along his body. Then, turning, he drags four of the big brothers of your friendly neighborhood two-by-four out, balancing then on his shoulders with a grunt. It takes a bit of effort to put the tailgate back up without letting the planks slide to the ground and without getting his hands poked full of splinters trying to stop them, but he manages. There's a hardware store across the street where Asher is, and that's obviously his target.

Still rush hour though, and the street is fairly busy. A glance cast down the street ascertains that all the cars are dammed up at a red light a block down. Decker starts across the street. Halfway across the light goes green and the cars start coming. Right about then Decker remembers his joint. Can't walk into a hardware store smoking that thing. Smelling of it is one thing; actively sucking it down is another. So the Modi spits it out, stomps on it, and grinds it out good underfoot. Cars rushing home are forced to slow to a stop, waiting for him to cross. Rush hour; people are pissy. Horns blare.

Decker pops them the middle finger without glancing their way, and goes his merry fuckin' way.

(asher)
something brings further smile, something.... inspires.... a sound to roil deep within his throat before bubbling up past the tangle of murkey weeds serving as vocal cords (enchanted to bring the Angel's voice to the Devil's whims) and twist past his lips in the softest of amused (mocking) laughter

as if he could taste her anguish
as if he could smell his rage

the senses a clandestine orchestra playing solely for his ears (what is the sound of weeping blue) each stimlation the jarring strike of ivory on steel, a reed rattling within it's jailcell chamber to produce not one, but many tiny signals winding their confusion into a desirous (lecherous, terrifying) whole

but still, he only watches
those eyes (unmatched, unmistakable) gathering what elixers quench the Galliard's thirsty soul

(decker)
Halfway in the door, half of the stack of planks slid in lengthwise, Decker stops. Dead. Backtracks. Wood slides out of the door again, balanced precariously on his thick shoulder. The Fenrir always did have good ears.

"Somethin' funny, pretty-boy?" His voice is a rasp, rough as sandpaper over steel. Beneath his scowl, his eyes are squinted to dark slits.
(sal)
The sound of innocent laughter is a stark contrast to the snide snickering that ripples through her head far too often for her to tell when it begins and when it fades away. She lifts her eyes from her pavement under steel-capped boots and they slide sideways to gaze at the children playing. Their mindless fun, their childish innocence almost grating on her nerves. She pities them. She pities them all.

If they are lucky they'll survive this lifetime unaware of the beasts in human clothing and die in the firm belief that the only monsters among them are the mundane psychopaths that society nurtures at her bossom. She lifts a hand and slides it through her hair, exposing the feral qualities of her features to the illumination cast by the twilight sky. She looked like the predator that she had adopted the roll of, both by force of circumstance and by birth. By accident another pedestrian brushes heavily past her, turning her shoulder at the movement and averting her dead gaze at the children. The touch is enough, however. Her jacket brushes back for a moment. A glint of metal. A movement of her hand. The movement of the paranoid that carried concealed among the unaware throngs.

(sal)
She grew up around the discordant sounds of testosterone coupled with rage fuled chest-beating. It was second nature now to notice the signs and read the postures.

listen to the giddy, lilting strains of war...

She drops her attention to the man who brushed her aside and glances towards the hardware store, cocking her head to one side in a very animalistic fashion. Curious. The adrenaline of a good pounding was second to none, even if you were only watching. It aroused the natural instincts.

And, thus, she moves closer and leans on a wall not that far away to observe. Casual ease in expression tempered by tight alertness rippling through her muscles.

(asher)
the scythe slash smile centers its focus on the brawny youth

"Merely amusing."

crooned, warm velvet contrasting grating steel
something dances (savage) in those eyes
but that voice (silver) snakes whispering echo the outskirts of the Modi's mind

........ but of course..... when I make you squeal like a stuck pig.........

the blond lips stilled long ago
it must have been imagination

(decker)
For an instant, Decker's eyes flicker wider and their hue is apparent - stormy grey, storm grey, steel grey, gunmetal grey. Eyes of the apocalypse, for the apocalypse, after which all that will remain is the inorganic and the dead.

Gunmetal grey and mismatched blue.
Big bad wolf, I think I know you.

Without a word, Decker disappears into the hardware store, the tail end of his stack of planks slipping through the frame. The automatic door shuts behind him, and Asher has precisely two minutes eighteen seconds to vanish before the Full-Moon reappeared.

(sal)
When would they just stop beating around the bush and start the pounding? It had been awhile (a week) since she'd seen blood spilled... since she'd seen her fill of pain and gaping wounds.

When Decker turns on heel and stalks into the hardware store there was something tugging on her subconscious, something that she should recognize. The anger that oozes from his pores and radiates through his eyes. A predictable anger that is so common among a special kind of man, woman, beast. She shakes her head and frowns, her almost gold-brown eyes flicking back to the Asher where he reclines, smiling like a twisted paraody of a clown. She gives something approximating a snort.

So much for seeing something worth paying attention too...

(asher)
pink tongue swipes against white teeth beneath eyes that hold the daytime sky and night's darkest secrets, drawing lips into a wider (lovingly homicidal) smile

and something stills
something pauses
something disconnects itself from the ravages of time for that one moment both their hearts strike blood through their veins at the precise, same (explosive) moment

Do you really want to know me, little boy.

the lighter (left) eye flashes in a wink
while the blistering Modi stalks away
the Galliard does little more than comfortably shift

(sal)
Then the uneasiness of knowledge crawls through her mind and raises the hairs on the back of her neck. The unexplainable testosterone-anger becomes and very explainable rage. Her jaw clenches and she appears to grind her teeth as her eyes seem to darken with hidden thoughts.

"Fuck."

Very low, almost growled between her teeth. A whisper to herself as her eyes slide back to the doors and stare with comprehension of the youth's stature. Unconsciously she strokes a thumb over her midrift and chews the inside of her cheek in contemplation. She pushes off the wall she had taken to leaning against, her hand that was against her midrift sliding a little further to one side and just under her jacket. A semi-concealed movement towards protection. Instinctual. It was the best she had against these types of situations. Family renuions sucked balls.

(decker)
Inside, life goes on. He returns the boards, not responding to the storekeep's feeble attempts at conversation. Money changes hands, as does goods, and Decker puts his change away in his battered wallet.

Then he unhooks the chain from the wallet, jerking it between his hands once to ascertain its strength. He's in no hurry. Sooner or later, his Alpha would've found Asher anyway. In fact, Erik was probably going to be angry that he's going in without backup. That's why he went in. Give the Dancer some time to get away, so Decker didn't get in trouble with his Alpha. But if he's still out there, ain't nobody going to blame Decker for what he does. Right?

Zznnnt. The automatic door opens. That's all the warning Asher gets. In the next instant - fast, faster than he had been before - the grey-eyed beast is on him, wolf form, human form, it made no difference. The gleaming wallet-chain is wrapped around the Galliard's throat, and it pulls impossibly tight.

"Tell me her name." The words are growled into the fallen one's ear. On the road, some drivers stop to stare open-mouthed; most drive on, as fast as they can. Gang wars aren't uncommon here and they don't want to be caught in the crossfire.

(sal)
A frown furrows her brow and her muscle tense to the consistancy of steel at the sheer speed of the youth and his brazen attack on another in such an open place. Her hand slips under her jacket fully, her eyes shifting up and down the road to see if she can spy anything that looks remotely like the authorities. Her thumb flicks open the thumb snap under her jacket and slowly she begins to slide the piece from its holster, returning her focus onto the situation forming before her like a macabre play.

(asher)
his chin lifts in reflection of the hairs patterning the back of her neck to attention, lungs filling (apprehension's delicate grace) with the scents rolling the distance between them until cut haphazardly short by the chain around his neck, half-hauled out of recline against the Modi brute

a hand slides up Decker's thigh and between them
tankboot wedging on the bench to grind back against sheer muscle

........Ask. Me. Nicely......

the words whiplash SHREIK in the Fenrir's mind (fingernails across chalkboard sounded sweeter) deafening, disorienting, downright sickening

but he makes sure, in the mindspeak chaos, another sound and feeling are clearly apparent
that of a .44 mangum muzzle sliding just beneath the flat canvas belt holding the BDUs up
tip pointed back and down
the hammer cocking

knowing everyone saw Decker instigate the assault
and even if his neck snapped, reflexive spasm would tighten his finger on the trigger

(sal)
It is only a perverse sense of loyalty that has become a twisted parody of what it once was, that makes her step away from the wall, piece and the hand wrapped around it still concealed by the brown of her jacket. Here and now was not the place for this sort of violence. Too many witnesses. Too many eyes watching in the fading light of dusk. She moves close enough that the cocking of her own gun can be heard clear enough by the pair of chest-beating males. Beating each other into a pulp by hand was one thing, calling a lot of attention to the scene and alerting the law was just plain stupid in her eyes - even if she did have permits to carry. She positions herself so she can see at least the pretty-boys eyes, her own flowing into that dead place inside her that feels nothing for the world around her. Close enough that perhaps the furry-family can hear the cocking of yet another gun and the astringent sting to the sense of a lot more metal of a nefarious sort in their vicinity.

(decker)
Decker flinches visibly from the noise in his head, his hands yanking the chain spasmodically tight for an instant as he retches from the sheer noise in his head. Torture was the sort of thing that required control, and Decker. had. none.

The press of the gun against his groin while he's off guard - and Decker laughs. This is what he does best, and truth be told it felt fucking good. Fighting, killing. Then the bench is simply overturned, ripped right-unbelievably out of the concrete and flipped over, Asher and all. In this game of speed, he always goes first.

The chain goes flying. Wood splinters with an incredible racket. No way anyone was going to mistake that for a hollywood stunt. Before the bench quite comes to a stop in its crazy lurch out into the road, where cars swerve to avoid it and moms in minivans grab for their cell phones to call the cops first, channel eight news second, Decker's bounding easily, almost jubilantly over the mess, one shitkicker boot slamming into the side of the Dancer's head, the other crunching down on his gunwielding hand. This is what he does best. Fighting. Violence. And fuckin' hell did it feel good right about now.

"Her name, Dancer." There's no laughter in his voice now, just vicious fury. Another kick aimed right for the gut, taut, delivered with the sort of force that would rupture a man. You tore her to bits, you crazy fuck. You know what I'm gonna do to you? "Hers and every other's you've fucked over."

(This is what he does best. What was the name again? Ba'ashkai. Angu. Violence. Cruelty.)

(asher)
when the bench flips, the gun fires
(one)
bullet burying itself in Decker's thigh as the Dancer bounces off a swervinghaltingscreeching car
another aimed
(twothree)
before boot kicks the weapon from his hand, skittering beneath cars and into a gutterfall nestled quietly beneath the curb, the Galliard's grunt of pain doing nothing but increase the volume of Decker's private hellish chorus (straight from the Ninth Circle itself), breaths gasped in ill-timed beat with what pulses and writhes for the Fenrir alone

gut. wrenching.

and above it all, seethes the low growl of the Dancer's (Father's thunderous) voice

...............who's name, cub.....

mockery lining the question, curled on the ground to watch (wait) the storm gray assault to hail upon him.... grunted to catch the boot aimed for his belly (rib cracks), twisting to break (shatter) bone and cartilege in knee, thigh, and hip with the very force Decker put behind it

talons sink through canvas (toxic clawed sludge worming.... wyrming.... its way into Fenrir blood) hidden in the folds of baggy BDUs, words a mouthful of blood spat into Decker's face

"It's a long list you're asking for...."

there's something in those eyes, a madness even full-moon rage cannot touch (have you realized how much of the Wyrm already flowed in your veins?) a fanatacism driven by the pain (can you feel it responding to my touch) the unhinged laughter that seeps past the crimson stained teeth

(sal)
Fuck it. This was going way too far for her liking, in the public eye sense. Boys pounding themselves in privacy was delivious, this was just beyond stupid. Then again, no one ever credited either side for harboring that much brains when they were angry. Dancers', then again, were just crazy. She reaches under her jacket, drawing her gun slowly and keeping it as close to her body as possible as she watches the exchange of gunshots and bone-cracking kicks. She had no time for a silencer, and in this situation, it wasn't worth the effort even if she did. The peopel around her were already in a blind panic from the Dancer's volley of bullets.

Targeting fuzzies was something she prided herself in. The crack of a gun shot and then another but moments later. The sting of metal entering the largest mass of both quarreling bodies.

...and the humanity and conscience that makes you feel remorse just drains from her eyes like water being poured from a glass...

(decker)
He never even feels the bullets, realizes his leg has been shot only when it refuses to bear his weight properly. A glance down, a glance up, and then he grabs Asher by the shoulders, hair, shirt, whatever he can take hold of - hurls him into the midst of traffic.

Then - it's a long list - and he had a long list of his own. The Silver Fang kin, the Fenrir kin, the incident in the village, the factory full of snuff, the corruption of the Bone Gnawer...the trail goes on and on, and as all roads lead to Rome, all sins lead to Asher in Decker's mind.

Frenzy.
Madness.

Pop-clack is how Salome puts it. Understandable, reducing such terror into such a simple phrase. Defense mechanisms, all that. The reality is different. The reality is a sudden, unbelievable swelling of muscle and fur. Wild-eyed, the Crinos limps-runs-lunges on three legs, his devastating teeth snapping like a steel trap. Suddenly the screams from all around are deafening. Cars crash together, crumpled like tin cans; unreasoning panic ensues. Delirium sets in and the masses flee like locusts from the flood. Cars have piled up between the creature called Decker in one form, Silence in another, and his quarry. Dead-set, almost casually, he flips cars and motorcycles like toys, tearing a path through it all.

Another bullet, perfectly aimed, unfelt. Lost deep in his red haze, the rational part of the Fenrir floats in the silence at the heart of a whirlwind. There is peace here...peace in utter oblivious violence. The body is on autopilot and the mind disconnects. Like the time before birth; like the void after death.

Peace is what he craves above all else.

(sal)
She watches the ensuing madness that encompasses the neighborhood and suddenly wonders she should have shot the Dancer first and used the second bullet for Decker. She momentarily lifts the gun to her forehead, pressing the length against her brow with a grating sigh. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And she moves closer, aiming to avoid hitting any 'citizens' who get in the way... although most will be running away in whatever directions is possible. This time the aiming is lower. A lot lower... He has one good leg... for now...

A third crack of gunshot...
And alone among the panic of the mere mortals, she stands without running...

And through it all she is wading through the carnage, closing in on the warring parties. Overconfidence tends to do this to you.

(asher)
the asphalt's embrace is unforgiving as the Dancer hits it once again (flung like a ragdoll) roadburn kiss grazing the fabric from his shoulder, disorientation guiding his wild looks around

the enraged chrinos
(oh yes.... that explains the voice.....)
the calm girl holding the silver powered gun
(i'll remember you)
the blood slickening his hand from the gaping bullet wound

when in Rome...

the Galliard bolts into the frightened (delerious) crowd (blending in) diving into an abandoned car and gunning the motor even before the door closes in momentum
he needs to go home
he needs his pack

it's not over yet

(decker)
...and the Crinos slumps down, his other hindleg taken out of the equation. Even so, he's still dragging himself along on his forelegs, arms, for whatever good it does him. All through it, he is as silent as his name, not a single sound escaping other than the snap of his teeth and the rake of his claws into metal. Not a growl, not a yelp, not a snarl.

Bright blood, the sort that flowed in the veins of Jarls of old, splashes out onto iron-grey fur, darkens the asphalt beneath, smudges onto smashed metal. There's no thought, no plan, no logic behind it. Killing is hardwired into his body, and later he will have no memory of this at all. That's probably a good thing. But for now, as long as so much as the corner of one furious grey eye, glazed over with rage - as long as so much as that can catch sight of Asher, it's not over.

It's never over.

But the Galliard bolts. He blends. He vanishes, and the beast's crazed mind cannot follow the deftness of the Dancer's dance away. The trigger is gone; the frenzy ebbs and, exhausted and bleeding from half a dozen wounds, the Fenrir crashes down on the ground.

Blackness.
Sleep.
Void?
No.

Not that lucky. Consciousness returns slowly, coherency with it, and a world of pain accompanying both. The street is more or less empty by now. Mortals run fast when they needed to. But in the distance, the sirens wail.

[and wolf passes out]
Posted by asher at October 10, 2002 12:00 AM

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