Fic: Here Comes The Flood.
May. 17th, 2022 04:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
silbernefuchsTitle: Here Comes The Flood
Fandom[s]: Masters of the Universe; World of Darkness [for inspiration]
Character[s]: Keldor, Randor, Marlena, Miro, Amelia
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Character death. Violence. Cursing
Length: 1,572 words
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters are the property of Mattel and all other license holders. I'm just playing with them. Elements related to Werewolf: the Forsaken are the property of White Wolf Game Studio.
Summary: Set in a modern Earth AU, with elements borrowed from White Wolf's Werewolf: the Forsaken table top RPG. Keldor is both a human and a werewolf, who's about to have one hell of a night.
This story is the result of me musing aloud online to people inclined to say "Do the thing!". So I did the thing.
"Dad is gonna skin us both for getting home late. I mean, the lights are still on. He's gotta be up."
Marlena laughed, kissing her boyfriend heatedly as they stood at the door to Miro's house.
"That depends on if he's still awake. It's almost 1:30 in the morning. Even your dad has to go to sleep sometime."
"You'd better hope so." Randor paused, then added, "Can't believe I still have a fucking curfew, and at my age!"
"You're still living under your father's roof at this age."
"Don't remind me," Randor grumbled as he drunkenly tried to find his keys before unlocking the door.
The house was quiet.
"Maybe you're in luck. Miro must be passed out in front of the big screen again."
"Let's hope so... I gotta piss."
"While you do that, I'll be waiting for you in your room."
The house was strangely quiet.
"Right," Randor said as he headed down the hall towards the bathroom while Marlena went the other way, laughing.
Then screamed.
"Ohmygod! RANDOR!"
So much for taking a much-needed leak...
"What is it, 'Lena—?" he started as he entered the room.
Then stopped. Wide-eyed in horror.
The room—the kitchen, or rather, what was the kitchen—looked like the aftermath scenes one would see in videos about extreme weather. Everything that could've been broken below a certain height was.
But that wasn't what caused the screaming.
In the middle of the room, in the eye of the storm, were three bodies.
Two of them obviously dead. Randor's parents. Or ... what was left of them. One still alive, but unconscious.
His half-brother.
Keldor.
Marlena looked sick.
Randor was horrified. Then enraged.
He kicked his brother's prone body in the ribs.
"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!"
*******
He'd never really had the best life growing up.
It had started early on, when he'd been handed over to his father not long after being born, with a terse message that there was just no way his mother—whoever she was—could raise him properly. Something about the fact that he'd be in constant danger if Miro and his new wife didn't raise him themselves. His stepmother was fine with it, despite the fact that the boy had been born from an affair prior to their marriage. Miro was not, though, and did his level best to make sure his son understood that Miro decided whether the boy remained under this roof or if he'd be handed off to someone else to deal with.
And Miro was always close to handing him off.
It didn't help that the boy had ... problems ... that began to manifest from an early age. He had trouble making friends with his peers, who all seemed to be wary of him. If not outright afraid of him. And the older he got, the worse it got.
It didn't help that the boy had a considerable temper. Just about anything could set it off, and he would spend no small amount of time talking to counsellors and therapists to get at the root of things.
Then again, his father had a bit of a temper, too, and some people believed that Keldor's issues with anger came from Miro.
Unfortunately, as he grew from child to adolescent, Keldor's angers only worsened, and the fights he'd get into often landed him in trouble with just about every authority there was to get into trouble with, and by the time he'd turned fifteen, he'd already been in jail multiple times, as well as expelled from no less than three schools.
It was not getting any better.
He'd started hanging out with people of questionable backgrounds and whose histories with the law were even more extensive than his own. But they kept him away from home, which at the time felt like a good thing, because whenever Keldor was home, a fight with his father was always an inevitable, and no sooner was he home than he was back out on the streets again.
That didn't explain why he'd decided, after several months out running with his dodgy companions, to come home that night. All he knew was that he just had to.
Had to...
Do what?
He'd figure that one out when he got to that point.
He pulled the keys from his back pocket, praying that the locks had not been changed during this particularly long absence.
They hadn't.
Keldor wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Perhaps his stepmother had insisted that no changes be made. That her stepson could always come home when he needed to.
At least someone in this house was on his side.
From somewhere upstairs he heard the television playing. It wasn't very loud, but somehow he was able to hear it clearly enough.
Come to think of it, lately, it seemed that there were a lot of things he'd found he was able to do, and better than before.
He stopped by the fridge.
A drink. He could use one. Considering what might happen, a drink would help.
The television switched off.
He froze.
Had he been heard?
Footsteps.
"What are you doing here?" a voice demanded.
"I live here."
"That's not what I meant." Miro was already getting angry over seeing the one person he never wanted to see in his house. "What are you doing here?"
"Leave the boy alone and come to bed. Please?"
His stepmother had entered the kitchen.
"Leave him be."
"No. Keldor's left this house for the last time." He rounded on her. "I don't care what you say anymore. I am changing those locks."
"Dad! You can't!"
"Can't I? Need I remind you who owns this house? Who pays the bills? Who allows such a delinquent as yourself to stay whenever he feels like dropping in?"
"Miro..."
"No. No more. Keldor you turn around and get your sorry carcass out. of. my. house! RIGHT NOW!"
Keldor opened his mouth. Shut it. It felt as dry as dust.
"Didn't you hear me? I said get out! NOW!"
His head hurt. It always did, lately, whenever he felt his temper rising.
And it was rising. Fast.
Coming back was clearly a mistake.
"Miro!"
It wasn't just his head that ached now. His whole body ached. Ached with the pain of his anger. He balled up his hands to try and make it stop.
"You touch me and you'll be in jail so fast your head will spin!"
Keldor didn't. He pressed his fist to his forehead, which felt like it was going to split open.
Like he was about to split open.
His body was a dam, trying to hold back a raging, storm-fueled flood that was spilling over the rim.
He was losing control.
He needed to get out. More than that, he needed to get control. Something he had never managed to do even once in his life.
"OUT! OUT NOW OR I AM CALLING THE POLICE!"
...the dam began to crumble...
...thunder boomed in his ears...
...the water began to seep through the cracks...
"GET. OUT. NOW!"
...there was no holding it back...
...it was all about to break...
Someone was grabbing him and dragging him bodily to...
He cried out in pain.
He cried out in rage.
He let out a roar, as the little control he'd ever had and was using to hold back what ever it was inside himself that was threatening to burst forth was lost and everything came rushing out like a flash flood—
...was there a scream?
*******
Something was kicking him in the ribs. Someone was shouting.
"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO?!"
One eye open.
Both eyes open.
It didn't improve things; he was looking at the world through a red-tinged haze from the position of the kitchen floor.
The kicking didn't cease.
It would have to. If it didn't he'd lose control all over again.
Suddenly Keldor felt himself being roughly pulled up from where he lay.
"WHAT DID YOU DO?"
Who was screaming at him?
".........Randor..?"
"WHAT. DID. YOU. DO?"
Spit splattered against his face.
".....my ... head...."
"SHOULD BE ROLLING ON THE FLOOR RIGHT NOW WITH THEM!"
"What ... just happened?"
"I'm waiting for you to tell me!"
He blinked. Tried to clear his head. Looked about him at the mini Armageddon that was once the kitchen.
At the sight of his parents' bodies.
His father looked like a pile of cold cuts. His stepmother was almost bitten in two. And there was blood. Everywhere.
Including on him.
He felt sick.
Had he done that?
"WHAT DID YOU JUST DO TO THEM?!"
Keldor struggled. Wrenched himself free. Stared at his handiwork on the floor.
In a panic, and not noticing the fact that he was currently covered in torn clothing as well as blood, he ran for his room, brother shouting after him, and began stuffing as much of the contents of his drawers as he could fit into a duffle bag, then tore past Randor who was screaming into the phone, trying to get to the door.
"SEND THE AMBULANCE! SEND THE POLICE! MY BROTHER JUST KILLED MY PARENTS!"
He had to get out of here.
Now.
Before it got any worse.
He nearly ripped the door off its hinges in his effort to get out, but he managed not to.
He looked about. Which way to go?
....sirens screamed...
Did it matter?
He fled into the night...
Fandom[s]: Masters of the Universe; World of Darkness [for inspiration]
Character[s]: Keldor, Randor, Marlena, Miro, Amelia
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Character death. Violence. Cursing
Length: 1,572 words
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters are the property of Mattel and all other license holders. I'm just playing with them. Elements related to Werewolf: the Forsaken are the property of White Wolf Game Studio.
Summary: Set in a modern Earth AU, with elements borrowed from White Wolf's Werewolf: the Forsaken table top RPG. Keldor is both a human and a werewolf, who's about to have one hell of a night.
This story is the result of me musing aloud online to people inclined to say "Do the thing!". So I did the thing.
"Dad is gonna skin us both for getting home late. I mean, the lights are still on. He's gotta be up."
Marlena laughed, kissing her boyfriend heatedly as they stood at the door to Miro's house.
"That depends on if he's still awake. It's almost 1:30 in the morning. Even your dad has to go to sleep sometime."
"You'd better hope so." Randor paused, then added, "Can't believe I still have a fucking curfew, and at my age!"
"You're still living under your father's roof at this age."
"Don't remind me," Randor grumbled as he drunkenly tried to find his keys before unlocking the door.
The house was quiet.
"Maybe you're in luck. Miro must be passed out in front of the big screen again."
"Let's hope so... I gotta piss."
"While you do that, I'll be waiting for you in your room."
The house was strangely quiet.
"Right," Randor said as he headed down the hall towards the bathroom while Marlena went the other way, laughing.
Then screamed.
"Ohmygod! RANDOR!"
So much for taking a much-needed leak...
"What is it, 'Lena—?" he started as he entered the room.
Then stopped. Wide-eyed in horror.
The room—the kitchen, or rather, what was the kitchen—looked like the aftermath scenes one would see in videos about extreme weather. Everything that could've been broken below a certain height was.
But that wasn't what caused the screaming.
In the middle of the room, in the eye of the storm, were three bodies.
Two of them obviously dead. Randor's parents. Or ... what was left of them. One still alive, but unconscious.
His half-brother.
Keldor.
Marlena looked sick.
Randor was horrified. Then enraged.
He kicked his brother's prone body in the ribs.
"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?!"
He'd never really had the best life growing up.
It had started early on, when he'd been handed over to his father not long after being born, with a terse message that there was just no way his mother—whoever she was—could raise him properly. Something about the fact that he'd be in constant danger if Miro and his new wife didn't raise him themselves. His stepmother was fine with it, despite the fact that the boy had been born from an affair prior to their marriage. Miro was not, though, and did his level best to make sure his son understood that Miro decided whether the boy remained under this roof or if he'd be handed off to someone else to deal with.
And Miro was always close to handing him off.
It didn't help that the boy had ... problems ... that began to manifest from an early age. He had trouble making friends with his peers, who all seemed to be wary of him. If not outright afraid of him. And the older he got, the worse it got.
It didn't help that the boy had a considerable temper. Just about anything could set it off, and he would spend no small amount of time talking to counsellors and therapists to get at the root of things.
Then again, his father had a bit of a temper, too, and some people believed that Keldor's issues with anger came from Miro.
Unfortunately, as he grew from child to adolescent, Keldor's angers only worsened, and the fights he'd get into often landed him in trouble with just about every authority there was to get into trouble with, and by the time he'd turned fifteen, he'd already been in jail multiple times, as well as expelled from no less than three schools.
It was not getting any better.
He'd started hanging out with people of questionable backgrounds and whose histories with the law were even more extensive than his own. But they kept him away from home, which at the time felt like a good thing, because whenever Keldor was home, a fight with his father was always an inevitable, and no sooner was he home than he was back out on the streets again.
That didn't explain why he'd decided, after several months out running with his dodgy companions, to come home that night. All he knew was that he just had to.
Had to...
Do what?
He'd figure that one out when he got to that point.
He pulled the keys from his back pocket, praying that the locks had not been changed during this particularly long absence.
They hadn't.
Keldor wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Perhaps his stepmother had insisted that no changes be made. That her stepson could always come home when he needed to.
At least someone in this house was on his side.
From somewhere upstairs he heard the television playing. It wasn't very loud, but somehow he was able to hear it clearly enough.
Come to think of it, lately, it seemed that there were a lot of things he'd found he was able to do, and better than before.
He stopped by the fridge.
A drink. He could use one. Considering what might happen, a drink would help.
The television switched off.
He froze.
Had he been heard?
Footsteps.
"What are you doing here?" a voice demanded.
"I live here."
"That's not what I meant." Miro was already getting angry over seeing the one person he never wanted to see in his house. "What are you doing here?"
"Leave the boy alone and come to bed. Please?"
His stepmother had entered the kitchen.
"Leave him be."
"No. Keldor's left this house for the last time." He rounded on her. "I don't care what you say anymore. I am changing those locks."
"Dad! You can't!"
"Can't I? Need I remind you who owns this house? Who pays the bills? Who allows such a delinquent as yourself to stay whenever he feels like dropping in?"
"Miro..."
"No. No more. Keldor you turn around and get your sorry carcass out. of. my. house! RIGHT NOW!"
Keldor opened his mouth. Shut it. It felt as dry as dust.
"Didn't you hear me? I said get out! NOW!"
His head hurt. It always did, lately, whenever he felt his temper rising.
And it was rising. Fast.
Coming back was clearly a mistake.
"Miro!"
It wasn't just his head that ached now. His whole body ached. Ached with the pain of his anger. He balled up his hands to try and make it stop.
"You touch me and you'll be in jail so fast your head will spin!"
Keldor didn't. He pressed his fist to his forehead, which felt like it was going to split open.
Like he was about to split open.
His body was a dam, trying to hold back a raging, storm-fueled flood that was spilling over the rim.
He was losing control.
He needed to get out. More than that, he needed to get control. Something he had never managed to do even once in his life.
"OUT! OUT NOW OR I AM CALLING THE POLICE!"
...the dam began to crumble...
...thunder boomed in his ears...
...the water began to seep through the cracks...
"GET. OUT. NOW!"
...there was no holding it back...
...it was all about to break...
Someone was grabbing him and dragging him bodily to...
He cried out in pain.
He cried out in rage.
He let out a roar, as the little control he'd ever had and was using to hold back what ever it was inside himself that was threatening to burst forth was lost and everything came rushing out like a flash flood—
...was there a scream?
Something was kicking him in the ribs. Someone was shouting.
"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO?!"
One eye open.
Both eyes open.
It didn't improve things; he was looking at the world through a red-tinged haze from the position of the kitchen floor.
The kicking didn't cease.
It would have to. If it didn't he'd lose control all over again.
Suddenly Keldor felt himself being roughly pulled up from where he lay.
"WHAT DID YOU DO?"
Who was screaming at him?
".........Randor..?"
"WHAT. DID. YOU. DO?"
Spit splattered against his face.
".....my ... head...."
"SHOULD BE ROLLING ON THE FLOOR RIGHT NOW WITH THEM!"
"What ... just happened?"
"I'm waiting for you to tell me!"
He blinked. Tried to clear his head. Looked about him at the mini Armageddon that was once the kitchen.
At the sight of his parents' bodies.
His father looked like a pile of cold cuts. His stepmother was almost bitten in two. And there was blood. Everywhere.
Including on him.
He felt sick.
Had he done that?
"WHAT DID YOU JUST DO TO THEM?!"
Keldor struggled. Wrenched himself free. Stared at his handiwork on the floor.
In a panic, and not noticing the fact that he was currently covered in torn clothing as well as blood, he ran for his room, brother shouting after him, and began stuffing as much of the contents of his drawers as he could fit into a duffle bag, then tore past Randor who was screaming into the phone, trying to get to the door.
"SEND THE AMBULANCE! SEND THE POLICE! MY BROTHER JUST KILLED MY PARENTS!"
He had to get out of here.
Now.
Before it got any worse.
He nearly ripped the door off its hinges in his effort to get out, but he managed not to.
He looked about. Which way to go?
....sirens screamed...
Did it matter?
He fled into the night...
