Look! Writing!

[amredthelector]

Do Minoans chew their hooves like humans chew their nails? NOW YOU KNOW.

Also, it's about time I posted some written work on this journal. So, here's a new part of the Gears story (You can read the rest here)

Gears: Just The Anger Talking

“Fight!” was the repeated shout of the crowd in the hazy, drunken chaos. Bottles, broken and discarded, cracked underfoot. The circle pulsed and pounded, drawing close with each lull, and expanding with a punch. The two in the center bounded and rocked in the frenzy, flinging their bodies at each other, then pulling back and stalking. If either stepped back too far, a sea of hands hit their shoulders and spine and propelled them forward.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Isaac ducked as a fist flew at her, and grazed the crown of her head. The air was dead and hot, and smelled of cheap beer, dulling the senses. Her counterpart circled like a vulture, waiting. She quickly began to do the same, weaving slightly to make herself a smaller target.
In a flash, she leaped at the Minoan, attempting to catch him around the middle. He caught her by the shoulders and swiftly brought his knee up. It collided with her nose, and she tasted blood. She slumped to the sticky floor, to the unsatisfied groans of the onlookers.
She cautiously got to her feet, blinking the stars out of her vision. There was a hush from the crowd, and an air of defeat.
A scream of mass approval heralded Isaac’s next attack. Taking a firm hold of her opponent’s shoulders, she dove forward. The crowd scattered as they rocketed towards the counter. With a wordless shout, she lifted the man off his feet and hurled him forward.
Blood and glass flew everywhere as he crashed into a pyramid of glasses behind the bar. Shards slashed at his face and arms as he tipped down, sprawled on the floor.
Isaac vaulted over the bar, suddenly intense and angry. She straddled the bleeding Minoan, and began to beat him. Punch after successful punch connected with his body. Bones splintered under her fists, accompanied with screams of hollow violence. The man did nothing to protect himself, and a well-placed blow sent him out of the realm of the conscious.
Most would, at that point, proclaim victory and sink into a boastful calm. Yet times were unkind, and anger had bubbled inside the former soldier, and now boiled. She continued to lash out, screaming curses in Minoan and Japanese. The man’s face was becoming a bloody, violet mask.
Pairs of strong hands took her shoulders and arms, pulling her up from the unfortunate fighter. She shouted and lashed out, trying to break away and drown her hatred in rhythmic punches. Yet, she was hauled back over the bar, and into a sea of blue suits and flashing lights.
A hefty officer took hold of her wrists, and reached for handcuffs. Isaac, though, was still buzzing with violence.
There was a flurry of yells and unclipping tazers as she elbowed and kicked, trying to pull away. Her violent protest was met with the cracking of pain across her back and arms. She fell to the ground, apathetically struggling or swearing every few moments.
Burly palms lifted her by the arms, wrenching her to her feet. Lead by officers, and held in line, she staggered to the door of the bar. Outside, cops began to turn off their sirens, but left the lights on. To the inebriated mind, the dancing flashes worked to bring on a slow headache.
Once handcuffed, the woman was pushed into the back of a cruiser. When the door was closed, the chaos of the bar scene was muted. The vehicle’s driver was an Inorani, and when he spoke into his radio, his voice sounded odd. He missed certain consonants, like a bizarre lisp.
Eventually, the muffled noise became a whisper, and one by one the cruisers pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to the station.

* * * *
Jail cells had served as a surrogate home for Isaac West since the war. Discharge had left her feeling bitter and useless. There were nights of heavy drinking, or fighting. At least two nights a month were slept off between three cinderblock walls and a barred door.
She had had to break a prostitute’s nose to claim the cement bench to sleep on, but it was worth it. By nine in the morning, that unfortunate hooker, as well as the rest of the cell’s guests, were gone, bailed by pimps or family. Only she remained, jacket pulled over her head to cut out the morning light adding to her intense hangover.
The cell’s doors clanged open, and Isaac cringed at the noise. She heard footsteps, and felt the presence of someone standing in front of her.
“You’re the las’ one.”
Isaac slowly lowered her jacket and opened her good eye. An Inorani cop was standing in the center of the cell.
“You have anyone ‘o bail you ou’?” He asked.
She opened her other eye and shakily sat up. She blearily stared past the officer.
“You have a name? We can call your family.”
The half-breed slowly raised her gaze to meet the officer’s. Wordlessly, she reached around her neck, fingering the ball-bearing chain of her old dog tags. With a quick pull, she broke open the clasp and tossed the tags at the Inorani’s feet.
The officer cocked a furry brow, and bent to pick up the tags.
“Isaac Wes’, huh?” he said, “And a knigh’, ‘oo.”
“Former.” She corrected.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Discharge?”
She nodded once.
“Yeah, I’ve been there. They dropped me af’er the Japs gave me a new arm.” He raised his right arm so she could see his hand. It was perfectly shaped and jointed, and made entirely out of metal.
“I was in the cavalry before tha’,” he stated, “you?”
“Infantry.”
“One’a those bas’ard sand dogs, huh?”
She stared ahead, almost looking through him.
“You have anyone ‘o bail you ou’?” He asked, returning to his original train of thought.
Her answer was to slowly shake her head.
The Inorani scratched his chin, thinking. “Y’know…” he began, “we ge’ a lo’ of ex-soldiers here. Hell, mos’ a the force used ‘a be in the army. We always look ou’ for our own, y’know?”
“Sure.” Isaac grunted.
“I think the chief used ‘a be in the infan’ry.”
“That’s nice.”
“Look…” The Inorani ran a hand through the short fur on the top of his head, “I know how hard i’ is, af’er discharge. You don’ mean ‘a drink, or smack people around, i’s jus’ the anger.”
Isaac nodded, slowly.
“C’mon.” The Inorani walked forward, placing his cool metal hand on her shoulder. “I’ll give you a lif’ ‘o wherever ya live. Maybe buy you a cup a’ joe, so you can sober up.” He helped Isaac stand, and lead her to the open cell door.
“Thank you.” Isaac muttered.
“No problem. All us soldiers needa look ou’ for each other. Name’s Morgan, by the way. Morgan Rus’.”
Isaac smiled weakly, shaking his hand. “Nice ta meet you, Morgan. So… coffee, huh?”