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"I want no savior, baby, I just want to get it out."
That passage I wrote last night is complete garbage and I hate it. Out it goes.
Continued from here.
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It was a long walk to the ground. Brick considered just flying off—several times—but there was something about the weight of his foot against each step. He counted each one; the act was oddly comforting. Meditative, even. So much so that when he finally set foot on the grass, he kept going.
He hadn't disrespected anyone. He had stayed until the end of Him's speech, grinning and bearing it—or, well, bearing it, at least—all the way through. And then, while the legends were busy applauding and preparing to ambush Him with their full arsenal of accolades and sucking up, he had left. His part was over. He could go.
Walking wasn't really helping, but it was staving off the inevitable.
The problem is I bother expecting things. He should've known better. Him was only observing the platitudes when He said the room was full of legends. There was one legend in the room. And He knew it.
Brick—like Butch, like Boomer—was only muscle. It didn't matter what Brick had to offer, if he had anything else. Legend or no, that was all anybody saw when they swept the room and their gaze fell on the Rowdyruff Boys.
Now the walking wasn't doing much of anything anymore. The frustration that Brick had kept a careful lid on for most of the evening was on the verge of bubbling over, and what could he do about it? He was stuck here. Stuck with Him, stuck in Townsville, stuck being nothing more than some lackey, some goon. Yeah, Him's name meant something. But Brick... Brick wanted...
He was well into the city at this point, but it was late. Everything was closed. He stared at his reflection as he passed store window after store window, watching as his expression grew angrier and angrier. Something clattered across the sidewalk, and he looked down to find he had kicked a rock. It rolled to an uneven, wobbly stop. He reached down and picked it up, then glanced at the building. It was an electronics store—one of those stores that should've been on its way out ten years ago, and yet, inexplicably, still managed to fumble along, waiting for the Internet to put out of its misery. And look—another Brick, right there, staring back.
Brick rolled the rock in his hand and stepped away from himself, backing off the curb and onto the asphalt. He looked down one side of the street—nobody. He looked down the other. Same. It was a whole stretch of outdated stores—electronics, baby furniture, antiques. Nobody would be caught dead here on a weekend night.
He met his eyes in the glass.
“This street,” he growled, “is full of useless shit.”
The rock didn't even slow down when it connected with the glass. Brick relished the sight of the window shattering, the cacophonous, rain-like explosion, bright and piercing, and punctuated abruptly by the earsplitting trill of the break-in alarm. Brick's arm arced towards the ground almost in slow-motion, back to his side, and now his weight shifted back too, muscles relaxing, knees straightening, his entire body retreating once again into neutrality as he watched a million jagged glass pebbles bounce along the sidewalk, their movement arrhythmic and oddly pretty. He watched, transfixed. Something meditative about this, too.
But like the walking, that feeling didn't last long.
The glass dancing across the ground caught an aberrant shimmer of light, and he furrowed his brow without realizing it until too late.
“This had better be good.”
He turned, his expression souring as he met Blossom's glare. The tinkling glass caught the last vestiges of her signature streak of pink light before it faded completely.
---
Continued from here.
---
It was a long walk to the ground. Brick considered just flying off—several times—but there was something about the weight of his foot against each step. He counted each one; the act was oddly comforting. Meditative, even. So much so that when he finally set foot on the grass, he kept going.
He hadn't disrespected anyone. He had stayed until the end of Him's speech, grinning and bearing it—or, well, bearing it, at least—all the way through. And then, while the legends were busy applauding and preparing to ambush Him with their full arsenal of accolades and sucking up, he had left. His part was over. He could go.
Walking wasn't really helping, but it was staving off the inevitable.
The problem is I bother expecting things. He should've known better. Him was only observing the platitudes when He said the room was full of legends. There was one legend in the room. And He knew it.
Brick—like Butch, like Boomer—was only muscle. It didn't matter what Brick had to offer, if he had anything else. Legend or no, that was all anybody saw when they swept the room and their gaze fell on the Rowdyruff Boys.
Now the walking wasn't doing much of anything anymore. The frustration that Brick had kept a careful lid on for most of the evening was on the verge of bubbling over, and what could he do about it? He was stuck here. Stuck with Him, stuck in Townsville, stuck being nothing more than some lackey, some goon. Yeah, Him's name meant something. But Brick... Brick wanted...
He was well into the city at this point, but it was late. Everything was closed. He stared at his reflection as he passed store window after store window, watching as his expression grew angrier and angrier. Something clattered across the sidewalk, and he looked down to find he had kicked a rock. It rolled to an uneven, wobbly stop. He reached down and picked it up, then glanced at the building. It was an electronics store—one of those stores that should've been on its way out ten years ago, and yet, inexplicably, still managed to fumble along, waiting for the Internet to put out of its misery. And look—another Brick, right there, staring back.
Brick rolled the rock in his hand and stepped away from himself, backing off the curb and onto the asphalt. He looked down one side of the street—nobody. He looked down the other. Same. It was a whole stretch of outdated stores—electronics, baby furniture, antiques. Nobody would be caught dead here on a weekend night.
He met his eyes in the glass.
“This street,” he growled, “is full of useless shit.”
The rock didn't even slow down when it connected with the glass. Brick relished the sight of the window shattering, the cacophonous, rain-like explosion, bright and piercing, and punctuated abruptly by the earsplitting trill of the break-in alarm. Brick's arm arced towards the ground almost in slow-motion, back to his side, and now his weight shifted back too, muscles relaxing, knees straightening, his entire body retreating once again into neutrality as he watched a million jagged glass pebbles bounce along the sidewalk, their movement arrhythmic and oddly pretty. He watched, transfixed. Something meditative about this, too.
But like the walking, that feeling didn't last long.
The glass dancing across the ground caught an aberrant shimmer of light, and he furrowed his brow without realizing it until too late.
“This had better be good.”
He turned, his expression souring as he met Blossom's glare. The tinkling glass caught the last vestiges of her signature streak of pink light before it faded completely.
---