Sunsets lost in skies of hazy greys.

3 Tria, 81381.


A swish of leathery wings, the clank of sturdy buckles on thick, restraining straps.

The instant she left the ground in a flurry of flight, the tightly-secured straps holding down her arms and legs seemed to melt off as if they'd never been there in the first place. The dumbstruck audience member who'd trussed her up to her specifications only seconds earlier looked about ready to either pee their pants or burst into wild applause -- thankfully, only the latter course was taken, and Sharkly did a few exta loops and twists in the air while waiting for the small crowd's enthusiasm to die down.

Once their half-hearted cheering ended, she alighted, smiling confidently and trailing wispy multi-colored scarves from her sequinned leotard. She'd never liked the costume, but it was one of only few that yet remained from her parents' wardrobe, and it fit her well. With a final little bow after that final little act in her half-hour show, she offered her hat around to the wealthier members of the crowd and accepted their spare change with a sparkling grin, as if they were depositing something far more precious than the few coins they managed to separate from the lint in their pockets.

It was important to her, though, very important -- without their change, she'd have no dinner (again), and she didn't like that gnawing ache that seemed to sit in her stomach far too often these days.

She sighed between her plastic-grin lips as one of the last audience members shuffled away to reality, and slumped over afterward like a marionette with broken strings. Slowly, she gathered the few belongings she'd carried with her from her small apartment -- a large overcoat, which she now used to cover the gaudy leotard and its scarves; her hat, which she jammed over her ram-like horns only after emptying its contents into her coat pocket; and a bag full of tricks and escape-artistry paraphernalia, which were necessary for her act.

With another weary sigh, she shoved one hand into the pocket of her coat and touched the money, counting the coins by feel. Enough to not starve tonight, she thought bitterly, grimacing. Sometimes, not eating was better than forcing mouthful after mouthful of sludgy gruel down her throat, the only thing she could afford on such a tight budget.

But she was too hungry to skip dinner tonight, so she straightened, clutching her bag tightly in her non-pocketed hand, and started on her way towards the messy little 'restaurant' where she regularly ate.

 

At the sound of the murmured comment, she whipped around, eyes narrowed to burning slits and lips pulled back in a bitter, mirthless grin. "You can just walk your ignorant little self off the edge of a cliff for all I care," was the automatic response that pushed itself out of her mouth like a darting snake. But the coward who couldn't even speak to her face was already slinking away, trying to blend into the bustle of city and disappear back to whatever cesspool he came from. All Sharkly saw was red -- a red mane, like the fire she felt in her throat after his stupid muttered insult.

And all Sharkly could do was follow, shoving her way through the startled, affronted people as if the red had taken something priceless from her. He had, though, in a way: with those few, dull words, he'd snatched away a precious piece of her already-waning self-confidence, and she intended to walk right up to him, verbally tear his tiny mind to pieces, and then fling those figurative mindbits into his ugly slack-jawed face (admittedly, she was assuming about his appearance; but if his face matched his words and his voice...), confidence renewed.

"Hey!" she called to the red, a blind sort of hatred in her voice. "I said, hey! You fat, ugly, worthless, ignorant excuse of a 'dragon. You!" She fairly spat the words, addressing the red in a tone of voice that made her disdain exceptionally clear.

She stomped along as quickly as she possibly could, closing the distance between herself and the red -- and as it loomed nearer, she felt her anger thrashing harder.

"You think you can just insult my parents and then walk away like nothing happened?"

Okay, so he hadn't actually said anything about her parents; but as far as she was concerned, he may as well have said it about them, because it was they who had trained her, taught her, and eventually left her to perform what they'd given her.

And Sharkly wouldn't let him get away with saying anything bad about them, even indirectly.

OoC; Aw, nuh-uh. :3

 

Her breath caught in her throat -- maybe, just perhaps, she should have made sure the red was smaller than her before attacking it (verbally, mind you) so harshly. But her glare was unfaltering, and there was a confidence in her voice that seemed to come out of nowhere when she spoke, making her words cold and controlled, hate-filled but careful, "You are disgusting. You say what you like but you slink away like a guilty nobody after saying it. And why did you feel compelled to mutter after me? So it wasn't the greatest show I've ever put on. So I was only doing it so I could buy a measly dinner. So my-- my parents, they would've done better."

She paused, choked back memories, inhaled slowly, then continued.

"That doesn't give you, a stranger -- talentless in the field of performing, I'm sure -- the right to insult me and then leave, nestling into the crowd like an insect burrowing into the ground to hide."

An angry breath sucked in sharply, and she kept her glare on the stranger, his narrowed eyes, his nightmare grin -- which made her shudder, just ever so slightly, under her varnish of fierce bravado.

"They trained me," she added, almost softly, as if by way of explanation. "They trained me."

 

As he spoke, giving her his oh-so-calm assessment of her act, plus his suggestions on how to improve (elaborate, come up with your own ideas), it occurred to Sharkly that she might be talking to a loon. For a moment, a burble of something like pity fluttered in her stomach; but then he said it: seven words that sent her over the edge, seven heavy words that spoke so much to Sharkly, who was already painfully acquainted with death.

You may end up in the gutter.

Something in her snapped, and she made a decision. She had to win this -- it was an argument, a verbal battle, after all -- because the honor of her parents depended on it. She had make this ignorant 'dragon realize that she was capable of more, much more, but she couldn't utilize it right now because of restraints (money, time, lack of suitable partners and safety gear); make him realize that her parents had trained her beyond his fathoming, and that they, the Grieves, the Traveling Grieves, were truly great. The only thing was, to do so, she'd have to pretty much flaunt the fact that her parents were dead -- not because she wanted to, but because it seemed like the only way to hammer through his thick skull.

"Oh, okay. So it's not fine for me to put on one mediocre act, but it's okay for you to go off and say whatever you want, even though you couldn't do any better yourself? And then, it's not okay for me to get upset with your snide little mutterings, but it's perfectly fine for you to threaten me over them? I think I get it now: you're an egomaniac who can't even let an orphaned, nearly penniless performer whose hopes are already pretty crushed -- thanks very much -- do a simple street act in peace. Yeah, well, I've seen people like you before. They don't serve any purpose, besides breathing everyone else's air and insulting anybody and everybody better than them -- but they get what they deserve in the end," she huffed, cheeks flushed with anger and hands shaking visibly. Saying that word -- orphaned -- was something she hadn't yet done, and it was easier than she'd thought it would be.

Guiltily, she thought, But it shouldn't be so easy.

 

"I do NOT hold myself back. Exceedingly unfortunate, crappy twists of -- of fate, of life, whatever -- things beyond my control are preventing me from doing the kind of show I'm capable of. And if finding a partner is so frigging easy for you, why don't you find one for me instead of muttering and then wandering away at the end of an act?" she spat viciously, still riled over the way he just lolled there, so calm, so condescending.

So calm.

So why was she so not calm?

She took a couple of deep, stiff breaths, still glaring, trying to force the anger towards this stranger to dissipate, dissolve, evaporating slowly like a spilled drink on a hot sidewalk. Think calm, think calm. Mama and Papa wouldn't have reacted like this. They would realize what a jerk this guy is and just leave him alone to his muttering. Calm. Calm. Calm...

And it had almost -- almost -- begun working, when he just had to go and make that one last snide comment about orphaning children.

With a scream of rage, she slung her bag over one shoulder and flew at him in one smooth movement, not really knowing what to expect yet still realizing that she couldn't do much damage to him. But that didn't matter to -- she just lunged, lithe body moving with the grace of a skilled performer.

Which, despite whatever that stranger thought, she was.

 

She was only aware of her pulsing anger as she leapt to attack -- the next thing she knew, she was on her back on the ground, looking up at the fearsome arden. People in the crowd shifted to go around them, but no one moved to help. She crossed one pair of arms indignantly, the second slumped limp as always against the ground, and wondered why the arden hadn't killed her.

Maybe she'd been hoping he would.

"Yes," she interjected, cutting off his second 'Do you realize..?' "Yes, yes, yes." The words felt sour and rancid on her tongue, but she couldn't stop them from coming. "Yes, I realize you could kill me. But you -- you insulted my parents when you insulted my act."

She sighed deeply, uncrossed her arms, and used them to prop herself up -- but she still didn't stand; there was too much adrenaline in her system for that, and it made her dizzy with its rushing. She was suddenly and acutely aware that the strap from her bag cut into her shoulder, so she adjusted it idly with one hand, muttering as she did, "And just why didn't you kill me?"

 

OoC; Aww, s'okay. I can feel Sharkly veering from 'normal' to 'cartoonishly emo' with each passing post. D;

BiC;

She glared at him, enraged anew by his ignorance.

"What do you mean, pity is sickening? Do you even realize what you're saying?" Her voice shook with indignation, and it was all she could do to refrain from attacking him again. "Pity is what separates living, thinking creatures from-- from machina. Without it, you're no better than a toaster, or a freaking refrigerator for that matter. You are just so, so.."

Frustration slowed her thoughts, and she trailed off, speechless.

That is, until he spoke again.

"Emotions are truely terrible, aren't they?"

"NO!" she shrilled. "No, they are not. How can you say that? Would you rather be emotionless? I wouldn't. I'd rather feel, every day, the way I did when they first died. I'd rather feel that every single day than be completely numb."

She almost added that without feeling, you couldn't tell the difference between life and death, but that sounded too corny to say aloud, even after all she'd already said.