Frankie Dalton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
never_very_good) wrote2011-07-31 07:23 pm
never_very_good) wrote2011-07-31 07:23 pm
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[VIDEO / MEMORY THEATER]
This room is dimly lit; only a little golden bleed from the kitchen off in the distance and the intermittent flash and flicker off the television will help you pick out the figure sprawled on the sofa, beer in hand. It's not just the lack of light that bleaches the color from him, though; a harsh yellow luminescence glints, reflecting, when the lights pass over his eyes. The glass in his hand is filled with something dark-- a pricey stout in place of his usual piss-water, because the blood doesn't show as easily on the bottom. Aside from being dead, he doesn't look that badly off; no signs of starvation or hungry hollows in his eyes. The couch even looks comfortable, so for all intents and purposes he's got it made.
Frankie looks up as another figure-- his brother, of course-- enters the room. Ed has his hands in his pockets, a slight frown on his face; even in the uncertain light it's obvious he has more color to his complexion. He's still human.
"Couldn't find anything to eat," he murmurs, and Frankie snickers, cracking a grin that bares the sharp edge of a fang, the same crooked smile he's always had being oddly well-suited to his condition. To him it's funny; the fridge is full; there's just nothing blood-free. He looks away from Ed, settling his gaze back on the television screen, flipping channels as Ed settles into a chair, still frowning. It's a long moment before Frankie breaks the silence.
"So you're just gonna disappear."
Ed nods. "That's the idea."
"I still think you're nuts," Frankie confides after a sip of his drink. There's a pink tint to the edge of the glass when he lowers it, and Ed looks away.
"If it blows over I'll come back. If not..." He shrugs. "Then at least I've got a shot."
There's a hard, heavy sound as Frankie sets the glass on the table, startling his brother a little. The younger Dalton leans closer, keen gold gaze fixed on Ed's face.
"You're gonna die. If you're right. You're gonna die out there, because sooner or later they'll track you down. What, you wanna go live in the woods like Robinson fucking Crusoe? It's bullshit."
"I'd rather die," he snaps without meaning to. He goes still, expecting a temper tantrum.
Frankie just looks at him for a long moment, before falling back into his seat.
"Your life," he says flatly and takes another sip of his beer.
Ed stares at the ground a while, then gets up to leave. Frankie doesn't react; if not for the flickering pattern of light this could be a photograph. It's a full moment before he stands; and when he does, the unseen eye recording this memory follows him into the kitchen.
Blinking a bit at the sudden, comparative brightness, he sees Ed rummaging through cabinets-- a bag of chips is on the counter in front of him, apparently the only edible thing thus far. Ed turns to look at him, questioning.
Frankie rushes him.
Edward may be the elder sibling, but Frankie's been stronger for a long time. Now that he's dead, there's no contest; and though Ed goes down fighting, though half his wild blows connect, Frankie manages to pin him against the refrigerator. He doesn't even flinch as his elder brother yells, hunger apparently overriding rationality as he sinks his teeth into Ed's throat. A few bright lines of blood seep past his lip, staining Ed's collar as his struggles lessen.
Finally he sags, eyes falling shut and mouth hanging slack; Frankie straightens up, letting Ed crumple to the dingy linoleum. They stay frozen like this for a few moments, until Ed's prone form twitches, suddenly, lifeless limbs flailing as the virus starts its work.
Frankie wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, and steps over Ed's body. As he stalks out of the kitchen, his expression dark, the images fade away.
[ooc; MEMORY THEATER, posted unawares of course. No video becaauuuuuse headcanon, yes. <3 HI POLY I MISSED YOU LOTS.]
This room is dimly lit; only a little golden bleed from the kitchen off in the distance and the intermittent flash and flicker off the television will help you pick out the figure sprawled on the sofa, beer in hand. It's not just the lack of light that bleaches the color from him, though; a harsh yellow luminescence glints, reflecting, when the lights pass over his eyes. The glass in his hand is filled with something dark-- a pricey stout in place of his usual piss-water, because the blood doesn't show as easily on the bottom. Aside from being dead, he doesn't look that badly off; no signs of starvation or hungry hollows in his eyes. The couch even looks comfortable, so for all intents and purposes he's got it made.
Frankie looks up as another figure-- his brother, of course-- enters the room. Ed has his hands in his pockets, a slight frown on his face; even in the uncertain light it's obvious he has more color to his complexion. He's still human.
"Couldn't find anything to eat," he murmurs, and Frankie snickers, cracking a grin that bares the sharp edge of a fang, the same crooked smile he's always had being oddly well-suited to his condition. To him it's funny; the fridge is full; there's just nothing blood-free. He looks away from Ed, settling his gaze back on the television screen, flipping channels as Ed settles into a chair, still frowning. It's a long moment before Frankie breaks the silence.
"So you're just gonna disappear."
Ed nods. "That's the idea."
"I still think you're nuts," Frankie confides after a sip of his drink. There's a pink tint to the edge of the glass when he lowers it, and Ed looks away.
"If it blows over I'll come back. If not..." He shrugs. "Then at least I've got a shot."
There's a hard, heavy sound as Frankie sets the glass on the table, startling his brother a little. The younger Dalton leans closer, keen gold gaze fixed on Ed's face.
"You're gonna die. If you're right. You're gonna die out there, because sooner or later they'll track you down. What, you wanna go live in the woods like Robinson fucking Crusoe? It's bullshit."
"I'd rather die," he snaps without meaning to. He goes still, expecting a temper tantrum.
Frankie just looks at him for a long moment, before falling back into his seat.
"Your life," he says flatly and takes another sip of his beer.
Ed stares at the ground a while, then gets up to leave. Frankie doesn't react; if not for the flickering pattern of light this could be a photograph. It's a full moment before he stands; and when he does, the unseen eye recording this memory follows him into the kitchen.
Blinking a bit at the sudden, comparative brightness, he sees Ed rummaging through cabinets-- a bag of chips is on the counter in front of him, apparently the only edible thing thus far. Ed turns to look at him, questioning.
Frankie rushes him.
Edward may be the elder sibling, but Frankie's been stronger for a long time. Now that he's dead, there's no contest; and though Ed goes down fighting, though half his wild blows connect, Frankie manages to pin him against the refrigerator. He doesn't even flinch as his elder brother yells, hunger apparently overriding rationality as he sinks his teeth into Ed's throat. A few bright lines of blood seep past his lip, staining Ed's collar as his struggles lessen.
Finally he sags, eyes falling shut and mouth hanging slack; Frankie straightens up, letting Ed crumple to the dingy linoleum. They stay frozen like this for a few moments, until Ed's prone form twitches, suddenly, lifeless limbs flailing as the virus starts its work.
Frankie wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, and steps over Ed's body. As he stalks out of the kitchen, his expression dark, the images fade away.
[ooc; MEMORY THEATER, posted unawares of course. No video becaauuuuuse headcanon, yes. <3 HI POLY I MISSED YOU LOTS.]