Merlin and Imogen catch Mr. Youngblood down by the quodpot field, cleaning out the pots before they’re put away for the summer. Every few moments, Zero Sugar Pepsi pops out of the pot and makes a grab for the mottled old rag he’s using to wipe it down, and Mr. Youngblood teases her and tells her to try again next time. He seems in good spirits.
But when the shell is presented to him, his easy grin falters. Ordinarily impulsive, Youngblood hesitates, flexing his fingers and clenching his jaw for a full second before he snatches the shell.
Once in his hand, the stone changes; no longer a cicada but a broom. Not just a broom, a racing broom, well-loved and used, decorated from tip to tail with peeling bumper stickers. Youngblood’s face falls. “Oh, not—” he breathes out and drops the broom, but the ghostly image is already fading, and he’s stumbling backwards.
The broom is gone by the time Youngblood hits the dirt.
He sits there for several seconds. Drip by drip, the color drains from his face, and his breathing gets more ragged, like he’s trying to suck air through a plastic straw. The cactus cat hops out of the pot and comes to bat at his rag, but bounds away when he comes back, coughing and wheezing, a throat full of fire.
“—and y’ain’t never gonna get him—”
There’s more words, but they’re lost for the moment in a shredded throat. It takes a few minutes for Youngblood to recover from the memory, and when he tries to climb back to his feet he’s knocked back once more, biting back a shout as soon as he puts weight on his left leg.
“Shit, I was—I was fuckin’ right, wasn’t I?” he pants and produces a knife from his back pocket. There’s a soft clank of metal on metal as he stabs straight at his knee and starts tearing into the leg of his jeans. “If y’all ever wanna see infinity, make sure it’s really fuckin’ infinity, not just some asshole with his foot stuck in the damn door.” The jeans tear, revealing the tarnished metal of a prosthetic leg just underneath. Youngblood continues to saw at the seams.
“Those fuckin’ shitheads. Pete never gave 'em the whole damn heart. Pretty damn easy to figure out half of it’s always gonna be with the brood—long as there is one.” The pant leg tears free and crumples on a filthy boot beneath. “Them fuckos never did their research to figure that shit out. Why their damn ass ritual didn’t fuckin’ work right. Look thataway if y’all’re squeamish, by the way.”
With half a second of warning, Youngblood pulls his metal leg free with a soft pop. There’s a smudge of blood on the liner at top, and what’s left of the leg looks red and angry—at least for the brief moment it’s visible. “What me and Z saw still wasn’t enough. You either gotta see him all, or forget him all, and far as we could figure there was only one way to yank his ass all the way out the door.”
Youngblood turns a knob at the top of his metal leg and presses a button. In seconds, the leg shoots up and transforms into an adult-sized crutch. “Sure you could figure it too but I ain’t gonna say it, ‘cause I ain’t trust some of these bitches,” he sends a sidelong glance in the direction of the BoMB encampment as the redheaded specialist lets out an obnoxious whoop. “And that one ain’t no option anyhow.” Youngblood hops up on his one good foot, balancing himself with the crutch. “If I had another way I’d fuckin’ spill, but I wasn’t never the brains. Now,” he points himself in the direction of Central Classrooms, “I think I gotta get my ass to the infirmary.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
peckishmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
peckenpaugh2020-05-24 04:58 pm
Merlin Returns Youngblood's Memory
But when the shell is presented to him, his easy grin falters. Ordinarily impulsive, Youngblood hesitates, flexing his fingers and clenching his jaw for a full second before he snatches the shell.
Once in his hand, the stone changes; no longer a cicada but a broom. Not just a broom, a racing broom, well-loved and used, decorated from tip to tail with peeling bumper stickers. Youngblood’s face falls. “Oh, not—” he breathes out and drops the broom, but the ghostly image is already fading, and he’s stumbling backwards.
The broom is gone by the time Youngblood hits the dirt.
He sits there for several seconds. Drip by drip, the color drains from his face, and his breathing gets more ragged, like he’s trying to suck air through a plastic straw. The cactus cat hops out of the pot and comes to bat at his rag, but bounds away when he comes back, coughing and wheezing, a throat full of fire.
“—and y’ain’t never gonna get him—”
There’s more words, but they’re lost for the moment in a shredded throat. It takes a few minutes for Youngblood to recover from the memory, and when he tries to climb back to his feet he’s knocked back once more, biting back a shout as soon as he puts weight on his left leg.
“Shit, I was—I was fuckin’ right, wasn’t I?” he pants and produces a knife from his back pocket. There’s a soft clank of metal on metal as he stabs straight at his knee and starts tearing into the leg of his jeans. “If y’all ever wanna see infinity, make sure it’s really fuckin’ infinity, not just some asshole with his foot stuck in the damn door.” The jeans tear, revealing the tarnished metal of a prosthetic leg just underneath. Youngblood continues to saw at the seams.
“Those fuckin’ shitheads. Pete never gave 'em the whole damn heart. Pretty damn easy to figure out half of it’s always gonna be with the brood—long as there is one.” The pant leg tears free and crumples on a filthy boot beneath. “Them fuckos never did their research to figure that shit out. Why their damn ass ritual didn’t fuckin’ work right. Look thataway if y’all’re squeamish, by the way.”
With half a second of warning, Youngblood pulls his metal leg free with a soft pop. There’s a smudge of blood on the liner at top, and what’s left of the leg looks red and angry—at least for the brief moment it’s visible. “What me and Z saw still wasn’t enough. You either gotta see him all, or forget him all, and far as we could figure there was only one way to yank his ass all the way out the door.”
Youngblood turns a knob at the top of his metal leg and presses a button. In seconds, the leg shoots up and transforms into an adult-sized crutch. “Sure you could figure it too but I ain’t gonna say it, ‘cause I ain’t trust some of these bitches,” he sends a sidelong glance in the direction of the BoMB encampment as the redheaded specialist lets out an obnoxious whoop. “And that one ain’t no option anyhow.” Youngblood hops up on his one good foot, balancing himself with the crutch. “If I had another way I’d fuckin’ spill, but I wasn’t never the brains. Now,” he points himself in the direction of Central Classrooms, “I think I gotta get my ass to the infirmary.”