Branded+EmileeM

=__Branded__ =

Three images: One: the timid splashes of alcoholic waves wrap around his ears and curl at his toes. Two: a thick-calloused gray finger picks idly at the creases in-between slabs of granite, a pebble catching in a glassy groove and— Three: //scritch//ing, lightly.

Now the curve of his spine matches the curve of his lip; downward-turning and slack; a sigh, gentle and giving, escapes his blue lips. Now he sags, shifting on stiff elbows to keep himself propped up. He kicks the water with a pinky-toe; an echoing metallic “quack” cracks the soft sound of chemical waves lapping granite. A whir hisses, his neck jerks, his eyes pin frantically as they search through blurred patches of muddy colour. A hazy shuffling at his side. His eyes adjust as he looks coolly down at a shivering tail, a glossy spray of droplets, a trembling webbed foot half-raised half-curiously, at shining pebble eyes, which catch his sincerely. He blinks, trying to ignore that their eyes are flashing at the same time; something that should spark contempt or confusion, but just leaves him with empty curiosity. The tip of his fingers flick. The duck echoes a metallic “quack” which gets caught in its hollow throat as his hard fingernails clack on hard stone, moving to pinch at stiff moss, at tough lichen. He checks, when it quacks again, for a barcode along its flat beak, but it shies away from his outstretched hand. He would have frowned, except nobody was around to see it, so he goes back to pulling at the slick orange grasses. “Quack.” He ignores it. “Quack, quack.” Even when it nibbles at his hand. //“Quack.”// Even when it waddles haughtily away. He watches it with mild disinterest—the ruffled slate feathers and awkward lumbering gait, as it toddles to the far cliff-face and turns a corner and— <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">His eyes pin wildly, he holds his breath tightly inside his chest as ideas and calculations flick shallowly across his eyes, trying to understand why the duck simply disappeared and how it simply turned a corner when there was no corner in the first place. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">In a breath, out a breath, trying to ignore that the granite seemed solid, until it wasn’t. On the next in a breath, he struggles upward, jerking mechanically towards the cliff face, feeling it with his arms wide, scraping hard skin along hard rock as his fingertips twitch desperately, brushing crevices and dips and bumpy silver gashes. Pressing his ear close, he thinks he can hear the echo of the ocean, or maybe of heavy footsteps, or maybe of someone breathing on the other side… <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Hssst…” hiss the waves on the smooth chins and forearms of slate-gray shore. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Shhh…” whispers his cheek as it scrapes metallically along the chilly stone edge. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Quack.” goes a mellow voice on the other side of the wall. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“You’re not supposed to be here.” he says automatically, except the duck’s not listening and he’s not so sure of himself when the boy he’s talking to doesn’t seem to hear either. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“What are you doing?” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">No answer. Quick calculations flutter before his eyes, leaving him breathless. He nearly stumbles, except he catches himself neatly, even if he has to grapple with jagged stone, straddling it ungracefully. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“What’s your number?” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Impatiently, he shifts, delicately balancing either foot on either side. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Is that yours?” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">He gestures gently with his eyebrows, and the duck quacks indignantly, ruffling tail feathers and going over to drop something probably misplaced at the boy’s feet. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“I’m Number 92a084. You can call me C++.” he says. “All my friends do.” he adds, as if it were important. “W-what’s your number?” he stutters, as crumbs of rock splish-splash and acidic water licks his calf. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The boy doesn’t answer. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Probabilities run through his mind, they flash a gentle throbbing neon, and deftly—after a sly tilt of his head and a dry look from the corner of his eye— C++ swings himself across, registering, for the first time, that the boy is holding something delicately. Something that looks like it was fished out of the bottom of a lake. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Hi.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">As he walks over, the boy extends a thin hand, looking up at him from underneath haggard lines. He seems relatively unimpressed that C++ has nothing to offer him. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“What are you doing?” he asks instead. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“I’m fixing broken things.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Like what?” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Thank-you.” Confused, C++ shakes his head, watches him take something metallic and briny from a proffered bill. The duck quacks and shakes rancid water from its oily wings. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Whatever //he// finds here. Ramses is an excellent diver.” After a moment of consideration, he adds “You can call me H.” and wipes his lip with the back of his hand, looking at the intruder sharply. “Sometimes the things I find aren’t entirely whole.” He watches for signs of interest, which C++ readily offers. “I suppose that’s because they’re broken,” he goes on, “but still, they’re confusing.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“The mechanics?” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">There is a shallow silence. Mustard-yellow light dusts the brittle landscape. “What do you suppose this is?” he asks abruptly, seemingly changing the subject. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The boy shrugs. “Looks like a soup bowl.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Except,” he interrupts, bending the rim, “it doesn’t feel like a soup bowl. It’s not made from plastic, and it’s too shallow.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The boy shifts, pouts. “Well then what do you suppose it is?” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Quietly, “It looks like part of a head.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">He considers. “It could be a salad bowl.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“I don’t think it’s that either.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“It’s less ridiculous than supposing it’s part of a corpse.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">The other shrugs. “This lake’s deep.” he says. Then suddenly: “Look. If you lay it out like this…” He sucks in a breath as he scrambles on hands and knees and arranges bits and pieces, plucking at them and shifting and rotating them like the outer edges of a jigsaw puzzle. It’s a long, slender outline, and the pieces don’t look like they fit together in some places, but it seems almost human, as if it were a brassy, mechanical skeleton, carpeted in a thick shell of rust. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“That’s disgusting.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“What?” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“That’s, like, a corpse. You’re playing jigsaw with a corpse.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">He shakes his head, glassy eyes misty as he looks. “It’s not a real skeleton. Look.” He flicks a hip joint, the metal pinging and echoing back at them. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“It’s a barcode.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Exactly.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“No, I mean, it looks like a barcode.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Exactly.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Careful consideration on C++’s part.“That’s probably just a scrape. Or a tattoo, or just a piece of machinery. A model, maybe.” He says something which they’re both thinking, next. “It’s not human. It can’t be.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Yeah.” H whispers, scraping a thumb over the stripes. “You’re probably right.” But his voice is empty, hollow as the lisping waves. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">A moment later; “What’s that?” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“Huh?” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“On your elbow. It’s scum, from—no, wait.” H draws back, wipes his fingertips on a thin, plastic-like pant leg. He realizes that C++ wasn’t listening to him, really, in the first place, and sucks in a breath and ignores the patch of pixilated skin while the other peers at something he can’t really see. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“It’s mud from the rock. When I came over.” <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">“I just thought it was a scrape.” H says shortly. “Does it hurt?” He’s not surprised that it doesn’t.

<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Three images: <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">One: his lips, grim, are an unmoving downward-turning wave. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Two: the duck, which is picking carefully through stiff grey feathers, finds something like a barcode lightly stamped into its skin, but it doesn’t register at all. The duck only cares about getting the scent of alcohol out of its plumage, and maybe finding a more efficient way to scratch the small spot above its eye. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',Times,serif;">Three: The boy, standing there, watching the other watch him, is like a small and cloudy watercolour. He, like the duck, fails to realize what the other just wiped at on his skin, which the other boy has already realized (realized and forgotten about and, in the meantime, gone back to shining a shallow, coppery helmet), so he simply stands there, feeling his elbows and letting his mouth hang slackly; his fingertips absentmindedly brushing a zebra-striped blotch.