Homeward Bound
Nov. 27th, 2006 01:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
twiststhebladeMiho had headed blindly through the streets of Basin City, drawn inexorably towards the boundaries of Old Town. How she had made the journey, she'd never remember, recalling only the featureless streets, the glare of sodium lights on wet black tarmac. The slow trickle of blood down her back from freshly opened wounds, scabs cracking open from the slightest movement. The white shirt, lifted half-consciously from the back of a chair and draped around her, unbuttoned and held closed by bruised arms clutched across her stomach slowly darkening, a crimson stain spreading across the white fabric.
Bare feet had first been wet with water and mud, then with blood as her usual sure step had failed her, and in her unseeing stumble the debris of the streets had taken it's toll. The over-sized shirt had been more than enough to cover the little assassin's body from prying eyes, but still there must have been something that told the human predators to stay clear, for if she had been attacked she would not have been able to defend herself. As it was, her progress was unhindered, and she reached her destination no more damaged than when she had begun.
She never did find out the name of the girl who had found her, but she did remember the scent of her perfume, sweet and sickly and clinging in Miho's nose and mouth, and the feel of her thin and wiry arms around her. Pain had flashed up everywhere the whore had touched her, but the hands were friendly and pain had stopped meaning anything – it simply was.
Miho had blacked out then, merciful darkness pulling her under into its blank current and bearing her away. When she came to again, it was to cool sheets against her face, and cool air against her back. Turning her head a little, she could see her own small figure reflected in the window, a ghostly shape against the black cityscape. She looked small and forlorn even to herself, a pathetic and bloodied figure lost in the vastness of the bed.
Gradually, she became aware of the soft continuous swearing of a low voice, and a strange sensation on her back. Deeply anaesthetised though the area was, she could still feel the estranged sensation as Molly, bent over her, carefully removed the shredded and deadened skin that still clung to her ruined flesh. The swearing seemed almost in the manner of an unconscious mantra, which faltered as Miho moved.
Molly tried a smile, but lost it somewhere when her eyes went from Miho's face to her back, and returned to her face. Miho's face was expressionless, and she was silent – but Molly would never have expected anything else. No-one would have done, in Old Town. There was only one place that would – and Miho had stopped expecting to see it again.
She turned her face away from that pitying gaze, stung to have anyone look at her that way. As if she were weak, as if she had need of protection. She buried her face in the welcome cold of the sheets, and the cloth would be dry before she moved her head again.
It took hours, in the end, to remove the dead tissue, to debride the wounds so that scarring would be even and unrestrictive, to remove the traces of infection that had already set in. It was weeks before Miho was even allowed to sit up, weeks of confinement, face down, silent and alone. Months of stretching, limbering, twisting and turning ceaselessly, the pain a constant companion, before she could move with any semblance of grace.
As soon as she could walk, though, she had returned to her own small apartment. Trained in solitary silence, sheer will alone sculpting her body back into a finely honed instrument, repetition after repetition until she was certain that it would not betray her.
Then she returned to the city. To her rooftop haunts, silent and deadly above the streets, death on the ledges and edges of Old Town. Deadly Little Miho.
Bare feet had first been wet with water and mud, then with blood as her usual sure step had failed her, and in her unseeing stumble the debris of the streets had taken it's toll. The over-sized shirt had been more than enough to cover the little assassin's body from prying eyes, but still there must have been something that told the human predators to stay clear, for if she had been attacked she would not have been able to defend herself. As it was, her progress was unhindered, and she reached her destination no more damaged than when she had begun.
She never did find out the name of the girl who had found her, but she did remember the scent of her perfume, sweet and sickly and clinging in Miho's nose and mouth, and the feel of her thin and wiry arms around her. Pain had flashed up everywhere the whore had touched her, but the hands were friendly and pain had stopped meaning anything – it simply was.
Miho had blacked out then, merciful darkness pulling her under into its blank current and bearing her away. When she came to again, it was to cool sheets against her face, and cool air against her back. Turning her head a little, she could see her own small figure reflected in the window, a ghostly shape against the black cityscape. She looked small and forlorn even to herself, a pathetic and bloodied figure lost in the vastness of the bed.
Gradually, she became aware of the soft continuous swearing of a low voice, and a strange sensation on her back. Deeply anaesthetised though the area was, she could still feel the estranged sensation as Molly, bent over her, carefully removed the shredded and deadened skin that still clung to her ruined flesh. The swearing seemed almost in the manner of an unconscious mantra, which faltered as Miho moved.
Molly tried a smile, but lost it somewhere when her eyes went from Miho's face to her back, and returned to her face. Miho's face was expressionless, and she was silent – but Molly would never have expected anything else. No-one would have done, in Old Town. There was only one place that would – and Miho had stopped expecting to see it again.
She turned her face away from that pitying gaze, stung to have anyone look at her that way. As if she were weak, as if she had need of protection. She buried her face in the welcome cold of the sheets, and the cloth would be dry before she moved her head again.
It took hours, in the end, to remove the dead tissue, to debride the wounds so that scarring would be even and unrestrictive, to remove the traces of infection that had already set in. It was weeks before Miho was even allowed to sit up, weeks of confinement, face down, silent and alone. Months of stretching, limbering, twisting and turning ceaselessly, the pain a constant companion, before she could move with any semblance of grace.
As soon as she could walk, though, she had returned to her own small apartment. Trained in solitary silence, sheer will alone sculpting her body back into a finely honed instrument, repetition after repetition until she was certain that it would not betray her.
Then she returned to the city. To her rooftop haunts, silent and deadly above the streets, death on the ledges and edges of Old Town. Deadly Little Miho.
