In an effort not to clog DevCo with too much shameless self-plugging, though, I'm going to limit myself to one scene/chapter-thing per week. I should mention, too, that when in book-form, these scene-chapters will appear in a different order and heavily edited. Please enjoy.
Darren
hunkered down deeper into the grass. “I don't like this,” he
whispered. “I feel like she's watching me.”
“She's
only got one eye,” Craven said. He laughed. “And she's not
watching anything, unless she's spotted another butterfly.” He
laughed again, a sarcastic, humourless chuckle.
“What's
wrong with her?”
Craven
was mildly amused. “It isn't obvious? You know, she used to be
beautiful, once.”
“Honestly?”
Darren was almost afraid to look away. He didn't want to see what
would be there when he looked back. “What happened to her?”
Craven
Lorne glanced at the creature. She walked through the grass,
regardless of the long, wet blades that slapped against her bare legs
and brushed the seam of her torn dress – regardless of just about
everything. “I don't know,” he said. “No one does.” He
paused for a second too long. “Whatever it was, she undoubtedly
deserved it.”
Darren
watched her hold a hand out to a leaf and let a copiously-legged
insect crawl onto her pale arm, her glowing, green cyborg eye trained
on it. “You
sure, boss? I'm not saying you're wrong, but...” He watched as
the insect scuttled up her arm and over her cracked, porcelain face.
“It's just...” He crouched lower. He couldn't imagine anyone
deserving to end up
like that.
Craven
put a firm hand on his back. “Trust me, Darren.”
Darren
had no choice.
The
wind blew through purple landscape and the grass sparkled gold in
response.
Darren
found his voice. “So, do we...?” he left his question there,
hoping that Craven hadn't heard him.
“No,”
Craven said, to his attendant's audible relief. “Not today. We
will catch her, make
no mistake. And when we do, every bit, every last spec
of her Dust will be drained. But it's not enough, not nearly.”
Darren
still couldn't pull his eyes away from the creature and he was
growing uneasy as a result. He had been led to believe that she had
more Dust than ten normal figments, more than enough for any purpose
he could conceive of—but he wasn't about to question Craven Lorne.
Craven
waved his hand dismissively, low enough not to draw attention. “I
don't mean that,” he
said. “She has plenty of Dust. The rumours go
that it's white Dust, too, though we can't be sure.” He put his
hand up to stop Darren from getting too excited about the colour. “I
meant that it's not enough to kill her. We need to chase her first,
wear her down. Confuse her, worry her, taunt
her, torture her—” Craven stopped and Darren could almost believe
he saw a smile play on his boss's black lips, before he recalled
himself. “It's getting dark. We'll see her again, Darren, don't
you worry.”
Darren
watched her dance, lurchingly into the darkness. He worried. He
worried a lot.
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