Smash and Grab

[Malkavia]

Angelina caught Shimmerlace still squirming in the wet. Her rubberized shell had become more a bucket for holding water in than a barrier keeping it out. She sloshed unsteadily on her feet, shook off her wrists and even shivered like a dog. Then she looked at Angelina, gloved hand resting on her arm.

“Fuckin’ Hell Angie...” Shimmer’s hair darkened when wet to the point it looked red draped over her forehead. The Pixie gripped Angie’s hand. Funny thing, that touch. It was the first grip she’d gotten on this sack of flesh since it had hurrican-tossed her ass in an iron prison. Her grip now was firm but nothing like that iron-fisted claw around the prize, and the tone in her voice struck a bell in Shimmer’s memory. It’s just pain.

Shimmerlace shook her head in disbelief. ”You’re not takin’ this serious at all are ya?” She squinted up at the Marauder. This bitch of a scarlet pretender had stopped a step from the finish line. Mid-head shake, Shimmerlace would let loose. An emergency line would open up brain to arm, pink electric signal squeezing the muscle rapid-fire. She’d lash a gut-punch into Angelina’s unprepared, tender abdominals. If it landed, she’d cock a grin, PUMP with her legs, and sprint like a fairy possessed for her prize. “Thanks for the lift up, cunt!”

[Monsy]

Even with asphalt and rubber, Shimmer turns it to bare feet and ice. Holding in more giddy giggles was a bigger challenge than being a crutch. She widened her stance, though. Water between the black grains fill up her friction-worn flat shoe bottom. The side of her outer foot tilted, dug in. Her shoulder dipped, arm clearly stiff and jittery. “That’s it -- on ya feet, solja.” Angie touted, grabbed by the hand where she used whatever miniscule physical strength she can lend to curl and assist Shimmer from looking her in the eye to that taller tower of scion incorporated.

One eye closed when she met her eye, as if looking into a microscope where she had to peer deep at the bullshit laid before a red-soaked pink forehead. Right then, her body curls forward. One third from instinct to protect herself. Two thirds from the five-knuckle stitch-shaking fist that ate into her soak-suctioned black shirt, right on the naval. “KUGH!” Her skin shook like a rock into water, bending over. She felt this disorienting throb, the kind of hit that makes you feel every bit of tissue. Then, that burning in a streak. She drops to a knee. Her hand catches. She heaves in, deep, coughs once, then looks over to Shimmer racing away. The itch to bolt makes her jerk, not to much avail.

“Well, kudos for you!” Angelina said, loud and suddenly firm, tailing off with a sense of sarcasm.

Her tongue pushed against her teeth until she bit it. Slowly, she bit it hard. A deep inhale inflated her shoulders to look broad, and she held it as she got up, rubbing her stomach. Then her hands fell, not dangling but stiff and a few inches from the hip. Her fingers folded towards her palm, then out. Over and over. She curled her lips in, walked -- rather, stepping like this machine with a small hitch every second step, but pacing fast. No running, however. When she got to the end, she gave Shimmer this possessed look, always similar to how she spots her gold. And like always, she cracks a smile, biting her tongue even more until -- Sigh.

Her shoulders slumped, and she finally breathed out through puckered lips, making a ‘PEW’ sound, then becoming loose with her hands coming together behind her head, nodding. “GG, I guess.” She began to walk down the sidewalk, eyes fixed forward. “Lets keep headin’.”

[Malkavia]

Shimmerlace straightened her hat as she darted, leaving a misty trail as she splunked to the finish line. Once she’d plucked the trophy, she spun on the ball of her foot, arms outstretched as if she expected to take off like a helicopter, grinning like the erl-king himself as she watched Angie peel herself from the ground.

You could almost spy the heat waves radiating, this soaked second-place sprinter plodding with steely purpose. Scarlet Terror. Shimmerlace’s eyes sparkled as she hopped from foot to foot. The summer air hung warm as a bog, which made the water almost pleasant as wind galed down the street. Her fingers twitched as they stared each other down across a misty battle line. The excitement in her chest went beyond butterflies—there were hawks diving, no. Piranhas swarming in her gut as Angelina's violence-lovely grin made a smoldering fissure across the demon maw.

And then…Angelina Tarrant slumped. Shimmerlace blinked. Rain splashed on wet cement like a snare drum stretching tension. But Angelina made no further signs of aggression.

Well. Fine then. Shimmerlace shrugged. “...Sure. Just, eh, hold your horses a tic.” Her feet were bare when she popped off one, then the other of her duck boots. She dumped their water on the sidewalk before refastening them. And then…they were off.

The feychild clasped her hands behind her back as she marched. The temple grounds would be around five minutes if they continued thus, and then Shimmer would have some sights to share. In the meanwhile, she stole a glance at her partner. “...So!” The Pixie’s expression remained cheerful, flat, if a pinch sly. “How long’s it gonna be before a wee marauder’s tinkling laughter assails my ears?”

Shimmerlace felt her gaze drawn to the gray cement in front of her, as if a light in the sky was painful for her vision. She kicked at it as she walked, splashing water downstream. “Such is, I’ve been given to understand, the response to a right and proper dunking, no? Or is that just for feykind, while pirates go in more for eh…” She smiled, turning her goggled eyes up to the louds. “Moping?”

[Monsy]

With no gold to be grabbed, the pirate’s cannons stayed corked. She stopped as instructed. Her eyes closed. Tension bled from her with time. She looked up. The rain splashed on her lips, nostrils and closed eyelids, resembling tears as it slicked down her smooth cheek, with more slipping down her chin, throat and collar like a halfpipe. Guzzling wind channelling down open streets put a finger up her spine and legs, making her shake like a wet dog. Though her fur stayed just as wet. It made her hair swing in clumps and slap like whips, and it was so long that it went over her ass. Her frontside too.

Shimmer took the lead and Angelina followed. Her hands returned to the back of her head, practising her grip with her tender knuckles. It was easy to cool off like this. In the quiet. Though she more-so departed with her eyes looking out, half there, half not. She flinched when conversation started up -- a pull from a chord and revving motor that asked for a laugh. Her lips pulled perfectly straight, which puffed up her cheeks and dimples. Her brows hung a little lower than natural, giving Shimmer this stare that could say she knew exactly what she’s referencing.

“I ain’t fuckin’ mopin.” Grouched Angelina, dismissing the question altogether. However, the question still bit. It didn’t get her anything by acting on her salty punched gut. So, she rolled her neck, let her hands fall behind her and picked up the pace to go alongside Shimmer’s side. “That punch was fuckin’ left field, though. And I grew up around a buncha boys. Four. Three jocks and a prep. We competed ova’ everythin’. Well, they did and I tried.” Angelina picked up her smaller legs to trudge ahead, taking the lead and turning around.

“Turns out, it’s easiah’ to dunk by dunking ‘em to the ground first. I’d say ya reminded me of that, but -- the pink was the punched and not the puncher. I guess I feel dumb for gettin’ caught with the oldest trick in ma book.” Angelina picked up her backwards pace until her arms were moving along, and she danced on her heels, “But, between you and me -- I’m just being a baby. Laughin' comes next.” Angelina bubbled back with a smile, turning around and giving the ground a good bit of gas to steam ahead.

[Malkavia]

Shimmerlace jogged just behind Angelina. Her wetgear shell and the water-logged clothes underneath might have made the run a bit more arduous. True. But it also made the run louder. plomp, plomp, plomp. She imagined herself as a knight lugging golden plate mail, clumsy as she was huge.

She had listened to Angelina without comment, trying to picture this tiny red-headed tot, complete with the devil horns, scrapping with four impish brothers for territory and respect, and losing. Up to this point, Shimmerlace had imagined Angelina purely as a taker, and this perspective made her feel disoriented. The idea of a world that stole from the Scarlet Terror as ruthlessly as from the Pixie made her pump her legs all the harder as she ran face-first into the rain.

By now the path to Jindai-ji Temple took the pair out of Chofu’s dense commercial district, past the National Observatory of Japan, towards the Jindai-ji botanical gardens. Where before the skyline had been a jumbled stack of desperate, competing, monotonous businesses, now the runners passed grass courtyards, the rain pattering more softly against mud and grass.

“Sounds like a riot.” A long silence had passed, but Shimmerlace picked up the conversational thread easily. “I mean—tough, sure. You took some hard knocks, sounds like. But, like, it kept you bouncing on your guard, right?” The Pixie’s words were hoarse from breathing while they jogged, but even so she managed a hop to the left and the right as she said this, fists up boxer-like. “...I was an only child, myself, and never ran into much fisticuff type stuff. Folks must not have fancied what I’d had. They had their space. I had my private wee garden.”

Part of Shimmerlace itched to explain further, to talk about the last week and the world she’d found outside the gibbet, but she sensed none of it would be new to Angie, and, worse, that saying it outloud would, like revealing the mechanism underneath a trick, mute the colour. Instead, she shrugged and added, “I do got one question though. Your brothers, like…did they, eh, watch your back?”

As Shimmerlace tilted conversation back in Angelina’s direction, she pulled alongside her partner, glancing sidelong as they stood two-lanes wide down the sidewalk. By now, they could see the botanical garden ahead, or at least green wall of trees along its border. Dark in the rain, the trees' branches roiled in the wind, as if they too were a party to the wrestlers’ jog. “I mean. It sounds like they nicked everything you couldn’t keep hooked with your claws, but. In movies or whatever, gremlin brother types—they’re rough, but they stand up for your girl. At least, when it’s…anything other than them cutting you open. So, what about yours?”

[Monsy]

It spreads out like building blocks and sprinkles. Someone took a knife, placed it beside the flowers, shrub and statues, then placed a path that heaved in-between, squashed the ugly bits they now ran on so you can see this shit like sprinkles popping off minty leaves. White, red, pink, blue. The path is a straight shot from here. Trees rise and spread their many arms, where the glass smiles back and dares you to scale it, and the architecture of something across the courtyard catches the eye, beyond a creek of lily pads and weeds with their corn dogs. Beyond the tree break where it parted.

“Garden, huh.” Angelina gave Shimmer a once over. It’s hard to say what kind of girl she was in her personal time. Pink and wrapped up in rubber. Did magic tricks. Brought a bunny to the ring. Somehow, gardening didn’t quite fit in with her image of a Seelie Scion. But this was the best place to learn. She just needed to-- “Hm?”

That ask was loaded. Suppose she brought this on herself. Got to comfortably treading the rocks, where she perfectly watched her feet to dodge the cracks and feel like the floor was lava and the only platform is where her feet danced. She said anything then.

“They did.” Angelina smiled, then nudged her head to add on, “I like to think we played nice, attended each otha’s graduation, knew each otha’s hobbies. Thick as thieves. But if I called 'em today -- question one would be who’s this, and question two would be -- who? But I have them to thank for bein’ here. So, I still love ‘em.”

Angelina glanced at the distant temple, sitting pretty on a small hump with its small gateway and walls. Any fatigue evaporated into the rain drops. They could be there in less than five minutes at this rate. She could float there. If only they had jetpacks. “Alright Noseyblossom. Your turn. Only child. No fights. Private garden. Sounds cozy as fuck. How do we get from hydrangeas and calla lilies to suplexes and submissions?”

[Malkavia]

Noseyblossom. The nickname cracked a smile from Shimmer. It reminded her of the stage where they’d first met, of the pirate’s cartwheel bravado and crowd-eater of a grin, gleaming in a spotlight. The story about Angelina's brothers had made her feel uneasy. The image of this tight-knit crew sitting for graduation put a dull glow at the back of Shimmer's eyes, made her bite her lip. But. Then a sharp blade of ice slipped into the story's ribs, and the shift to the stage and to LAW was a relief.

“Wellll you know, it’s not a, like, literal garden, see. There were lots o’ plants, but it was more of a room, really. A wee fairy grove as our home away from our home on the other side o' the Hedge.” The feychild gripped her wrist behind her back, bit her tongue, and let her feelings settle. How much did she want to reveal, really, about that sanctuary? “I did enjoy the plants, though. Potted succulents and ferns, a few flowers. O’course they can’t exactly blab, but. You know, you water and sun them, and it’s hard not to imagine they appreciate your efforts. Wee, quiet friends what thank you by spreadin’ out their leaves and doing a lil grow, day after day.”

She did not mention any of her other treasures—the fey-touched bow Madeleine had gifted her for her 18th birthday, or the collection of gradeschool paintings, as key examples. Even so, she couldn’t stifle a nervous, protective pang about those pots and that greenery even now lining her apartment window.

“As for wrestling and the like, well...”

As Shimmerlace and Angelina ascended the temple complex’s stone steps and passed through the main gate into the courtyard, Jindai-ji Temple seemed small compared to the grandeur of the surrounding garden. It was a two-story building with a squat, rectangular foundation. Were it not for the hip-and-gable xieshan-style roof and its elaborate gable’s face, it would have been a humble residence. A more proud complex would have sat atop its hills; this one nestled at their feet, embraced on three sides, as if hiding in the folds of the earth. The trees on all sides rose up to and in some cases beyond its roof so that only the front entrance was clearly visible to those approaching. As they got close, Shimmer managed a shrug.

“Long story there. But the short of it’s that I was looking for a stage. Tried magic, and it was magic, but kept thirstin’ for something a wee bit…brighter, I guess. Hotter. More atmosphere below ya, more…” Shimmerlace peered up at the Buddhist shrine’s roof. Water ran in an almost unbroken stream from its awning to the cobblestone ground. “...Blood on your face, I’m starting to think.”

The rain poured its sheets over the temple, thick enough to obscure the tree-covered hill behind it except as gray, mottled patterns shaking in the distance. Part of Shimmerlace was ready to dredge up the ghosts swimming in the water they trod underfoot. The door seemed as open to them as it ever would be. Rain spattered her upwards-turned cheeks.

“Well then. I guess. Only bit left is ascending the roof.”

[Monsy]

Safe haven. That’s what she connected the dots on. Gardens weren’t her thing per se, but having it talked about like this was a pretty killer sell. Make your own friends. She started thinking of pets after that. It had her breathing in deep, then out. Glimmers of gold kept striking her senses. It’s in her nose like a home cooked meal, and feels pleasant in her ears. It tugs on her brain to lean and her hands get antsy, but balled them into fists thinking of cotton and greens.

Rain just about smothered what they laid eyes upon. The dirt all seems so flat, ornaments, all intended and placed down to the millimetre. Even in the rain, the paint looked dry. The roof looked like metal bamboo, curving up the corners and up its face. The dark brown engawa and ornate portico pulled the eyes along and she saw handlebars and launchpads as Shimmer went on.

She followed Shimmer as she went on, stopping where she did, looking on with a soaked face. “Shine through tougha’ shit, ya? Biggah, Baddah, Brightah.” Angelina tried to summarise as she put her hands on her hips. Then being told about ascending the roof so casually pulled Angelina’s head to look at her directly.

“You and me? That roof?” Angelina nudged her head towards the main hall, then took a deep breath in. “If I knew we were climbin’ -- I wouldn’t have worn flats. Fuck, man.” Though as she said this, she leaned over and started taking them off, standing on the cobblestone barefoot where she tied the laces together. “Ya know, these curved roofs are called karahafu and said to ward off evil spirits -- so if I’m struck down from heaven because of my horns, just know, I don’t do hospitals.” She walked towards the portico and threw up her shoes which windmilled and landed over the curved roof. She ran right underneath the deck, using a wooden symbol as a jumping pad, clinging to the upper ridges of the wall around the sliding door, then used the wall to throw herself at a support beam of the portico, leading out towards the main path. That jerk made her swing, and she bit her lip, wincing before she started moving along the beam like a playground climber, coming up to the corner where she reached for the next beam that went across, switching grip to come out the other side then use the carved ornaments to scale up to the higher beam, standing up to catch a quick breath. She looked over-shoulder, saw the hand slots in the ornament hanging over the middle and jumped for it. Her lower-half swung, and she switched her grip to face the door, scaling through hand slots in the decoration, then pulling up her legs by crunching with folded arms. Her gut felt inflamed and sick. She dug her forehead in and continued to pull, exhaling sharp until she got her feet in the slot and she stood. From there, it was just simple rock climbing. Put her feet in, then reach for the sphere pattern in the roof, which felt more metal than anything. One last hop, tug and she cleared her waist over the edge and wiggled up to grab the wooden support running in the middle. She sat on it, panting slightly, grabbing her shoes and looking down at the courtyard, and Shim. She grinned. “Aight. Your move, Shimma. ‘Bout time ya showed me those fairy wings.”

[Malkavia]

Charlotte watched the Marauder climb—first a rocket-pad burst into the sky that made Charlotte wince and grip the scar forming at her waist, then the long, wriggling struggle up the building’s side. As she watched, she found herself clenching her fists, biting her lip, standing on a tense wire. She anticipated a fall, held her breath every time Angelina swung from one grip to the next, and cracked a smile wider and wider at every successful new perch.

All the while, the Pixie stirred her mental image of this woman, letting the new facts — if they were facts and not new illusions or fabrications — dissolve into her mental Lake Angelina.

She had brothers. Ex-brothers? People who had been a whet-stone to sharpen her fangs, people who had supported and protect her, people who had, it seemed, become faded yellow postcards long since abandoned to molder. Angelina could mope, and she could laugh, and she could race across the ephemeral creeks in the Tokyo downpour water-system, only to stop inches from the finish line in pursuit of…What? Biggah, Baddah, Brightah. She had even, perhaps unintentionally, passed a sliver of vulnerability. The Marauder extraordinaire, she doesn’t do hospitals. Why not? Perhaps she had records, connections, names, liabilities that the invasive medical paperwork would fix, like an iron collar, about her neck. Or maybe she was just too proud—the kind of girl who nurses her own side-lacerations rather than face LAW’s medical staff.

For all that, the Pixie felt more nervous than ever. Shimmerlace had hoped, from the moment she began the search over a week ago, that she would have, or at least be able to capture, Angelina’s attention. Now she seemed to have it, which meant she had something to lose.

Angelina crossed the last boundary, slid her butt onto the roof, and Charlotte cheered, without any noise, from the bright center of her garden. Shimmerlace's eyes gleamed behind pink-tinted goggles. As Shimmer tried to catch the Violet through the obscuring rain, she understood for a flash how a fan must feel watching their fave earn the ding-fuckin’-ding.

And then—her turn. Time to unfold ye olde gossamer propellers, as she’d told herself before loss after loss. Truth was, those wings were plastic, at least when it came to scaling sheer stone faces. Angelina felt more mysterious and dangerous than ever. What did a few personal insights matter when the most important fact was obvious: she expected Shimmerlace to soar.

Shimmerlace licked her lips, cracked her knuckles, rotated her shoulders and stretched her lats. Then she turned to the trees surrounding the temple. She had never climbed buildings, but she had, in college, followed an ex-girlfriend out of her dormitory-garden, into the night, and up many tall trees. Thick branches provided a ladder up and up towards the stars, with bark-rough grips even in rain, and the view from the uppermost branches were at once expansive and private; the leaves or pine needles made her feel invisible, as if she were ensconced in an enchanted, invisible spy tower.

Today, the ascent into the gray clouds was almost meditative: grab a branch, heave up, loop the leg over, rotate side-saddle, and repeat. She almost forgot the Marauder watching her—until she hit the top. Then she looked down, saw the neck-break heights, felt the several-foot distance between her and the roof where Angelina sat. Waiting for wings. Shimmerlace swallowed. She grabbed a branch overhead, then balanced one foot, then the next on the wood beneath her. Just like balancing on the top rope, but with a thicker and more stable base. Aye—nice and easy.

Now fuckin’ fly.

She jumped. Her feet hit the sloped, tiled, wet roof and slipped out from under her. Shimmer’s side slammed into the ceramic tiles. Pain burst through her side, and she started to slide. She clawed at the tile but couldn’t find a grip on the slick stone. Worse, her squirming made her descent lurch and accelerate. She felt her feet dangle over the edge. Her tongue went dry. “Oooh fuck—” Her eyes darted over her shoulder, towards height and the fall that dolley-zoomed into her throat. Her voice came out choked. “H...help!”

[Monsy]

This was her new favourite bit. Shimmer had a clusterfuck way of striking above her weight when pushed into a corner. She cuts you deep. Gouges your eyes. Cracks you on the skull. Hits you in the gut, usually with a smile. What next party trick did this girl have? Once she steered towards the trees, Angelina hopped up with her hands down on the centre palm, bringing her feet in, then stood upright. She combed her hair between her horns, slacking together like rope. One foot danced in front of the other, almost hopping. She somersaulted, dashed up the incline then scaled the highest ledge, standing on top like its Queen.

Just where was that girl? Her eyes swept the ground-level, expecting the tongs of a ladder or some clever thing to be substituted for stairs to peek over the edge. But when she found the tree branches, its groaning and leaves singing amidst rain and rustle, she widened her gaze. “Well look at YOU! Ya fuckin’ nuts.” Angelina said aloud, coming over to the side, hopping over the gable’s side and onto the hip, which curved into a wet slope. She held the ridge, walked to the corner beam that was a steady shot to the end.

Looking up to Shimmer’s height, half-impressed and two-thirds anticipating the next part. Her favourite bit. Where that daring and gusto can result in something absolutely fantastic. And almost half-expecting her to bail, she’s ripped by the nape hairs when Shimmer jumped and witnessed that slam, “Shimma ya fuckin--” She held her breath, straddling the sloping corner ridge, pinching it with her thighs as she lurched over, almost tummy-flat, reached and grabbed Shimmer’s wrist. The weight pinched her shoulder-joint. Her gut seized up. Her small frame skid across the smooth support, and the wet made holding Shimmer an attritioning effort. “Climb up! Right fuckin’ now!”