Post by doctorpeggy on Apr 14, 2017 15:24:42 GMT
[So, this was supposed to be my themed contest fic for 'Black', but somehow (*cough* procrastination *cough*) it didn't get finished by the deadline, and even if it had, it would have been much too short to submit anyway (778 words). Funny how I can't write enough when I'm supposed to, but end up writing too much when the word limit is low.]
Summary: At Sherry's funeral, Vermouth muses about what could have been and what might be.
Yellow Carnation
Vermouth stood in a sultry graveyard, arms folded across her chest. Around her were people dressed entirely in black. It shouldn’t have looked unusual for a funeral, but there was an underlying ominous feeling.
A hot night’s wind blew through the graveyard, tugging at the ends of her hair and at the hem of her dress. The small group of attendees was crowded around a slate colored gravestone on which a single word was engraved: Sherry.
A man with long, silvery blond hair stepped forward. His lips were twisted in a sneer as he fired his gun at the grave. He turned around and walked away, gun smoking at his side, smile still in place.
“Practicing for when you get your hands on the real thing?” Vermouth asked as he walked by.
Gin only chuckled. His eyes burned with an unholy pleasure.
When he passed her, his hair brushed against her wrist. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Her fingers curled around the stem of the flower she held in her other hand.
Vodka, who had arrived with Gin, spat at the grave and followed his partner out of the graveyard.
“Do you hold funerals for all traitors?” asked Bourbon, a secret member in training, suddenly from the shadows behind her. She didn’t even flinch.
“It’s that person’s odd sense of humor. Those who try to escape have no chance. They’ll get killed, quickly and painfully. There’s no point in waiting to make a grave.”
Bourbon barked a surprisingly bitter laugh, and Vermouth wondered what he might be thinking.
Not everyone in the organization was there. That person was most certainly not, and neither was Rum. Chianti might have liked to be there to jeer at the gravestone, but only those closest to that person knew about the funeral. A fake funeral.
Bourbon walked up to the grave, open wine bottle in hand. Vermouth could only just about read the label. She snorted.
Bourbon took a swig and proceeded to pour the rest of the contents over the gravestone.
“Raise a glass,” he murmured flatly.
Vermouth snorted again. Bourbon turned around and gave her a smug grin.
“How much do you want to bet that it’ll be Gin who puts a bullet through her brain?” he joked as he resumed his previous position.
“How does ten million yen sound? You better start saving up. I’m going to be the one to kill her,” Vermouth said, playing along. In her mind, she knew that it didn’t really matter who killed Sherry, as long as she was killed before she let any information about the organization leak. Vermouth would probably manipulate someone into killing her if she had to.
From behind Vermouth, a shot rang out. A bullet whizzed past her, barely missing her. It embedded itself in Sherry’s gravestone. Vermouth whipped around.
“Are you trying to kill me?” she screeched at whoever had fired. A petal from the flower she was holding floated to the ground.
“I just felt like shooting at it again.” said Gin, standing some meters away. “Though your death would have been added benefit.” he muttered as he left for the second time.
Vermouth growled under her breath as Gin’s footsteps faded into the night.
She turned back around.
With slow and deliberate steps, she walked up to the grave. Her boots sunk slightly into the sherry-soaked ground. Carefully she placed the flower in her hand in front of the grave- a carnation, its color lost to the darkness of the night. Vermouth knew that it was yellow.
Yellow for hatred. Yellow for contempt. Yellow for disappointment. Her lips curled in a bitter smirk.
She turned around abruptly and walked out of the graveyard.
Sherry could have been so much more. She had the intellect, she had the looks, and she could handle a gun. Vermouth thought. I could have taught her so much. Now that she has betrayed the organization, I have to kill her. She clenched her fist. How stupid. How stupid of Sherry.
Vermouth wondered if it had been because of Miyano Akemi. Somewhere in her sister, Sherry might have seen a world beyond the darkness and twisted morals of the organization.
Vermouth was reminded of an incident in New York. Her smirked widened. She wondered if someday she might switch sides, like Sherry. After all, she was already indebted to someone on the wrong side. Or the right, as society might see it.
She laughed to herself as she got into her car. Oh, she knew she’d be the one to kill Sherry, if only so that nobody would ever put a yellow carnation at her grave.
She’d stay black.
Summary: At Sherry's funeral, Vermouth muses about what could have been and what might be.
Yellow Carnation
Vermouth stood in a sultry graveyard, arms folded across her chest. Around her were people dressed entirely in black. It shouldn’t have looked unusual for a funeral, but there was an underlying ominous feeling.
A hot night’s wind blew through the graveyard, tugging at the ends of her hair and at the hem of her dress. The small group of attendees was crowded around a slate colored gravestone on which a single word was engraved: Sherry.
A man with long, silvery blond hair stepped forward. His lips were twisted in a sneer as he fired his gun at the grave. He turned around and walked away, gun smoking at his side, smile still in place.
“Practicing for when you get your hands on the real thing?” Vermouth asked as he walked by.
Gin only chuckled. His eyes burned with an unholy pleasure.
When he passed her, his hair brushed against her wrist. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Her fingers curled around the stem of the flower she held in her other hand.
Vodka, who had arrived with Gin, spat at the grave and followed his partner out of the graveyard.
“Do you hold funerals for all traitors?” asked Bourbon, a secret member in training, suddenly from the shadows behind her. She didn’t even flinch.
“It’s that person’s odd sense of humor. Those who try to escape have no chance. They’ll get killed, quickly and painfully. There’s no point in waiting to make a grave.”
Bourbon barked a surprisingly bitter laugh, and Vermouth wondered what he might be thinking.
Not everyone in the organization was there. That person was most certainly not, and neither was Rum. Chianti might have liked to be there to jeer at the gravestone, but only those closest to that person knew about the funeral. A fake funeral.
Bourbon walked up to the grave, open wine bottle in hand. Vermouth could only just about read the label. She snorted.
Bourbon took a swig and proceeded to pour the rest of the contents over the gravestone.
“Raise a glass,” he murmured flatly.
Vermouth snorted again. Bourbon turned around and gave her a smug grin.
“How much do you want to bet that it’ll be Gin who puts a bullet through her brain?” he joked as he resumed his previous position.
“How does ten million yen sound? You better start saving up. I’m going to be the one to kill her,” Vermouth said, playing along. In her mind, she knew that it didn’t really matter who killed Sherry, as long as she was killed before she let any information about the organization leak. Vermouth would probably manipulate someone into killing her if she had to.
From behind Vermouth, a shot rang out. A bullet whizzed past her, barely missing her. It embedded itself in Sherry’s gravestone. Vermouth whipped around.
“Are you trying to kill me?” she screeched at whoever had fired. A petal from the flower she was holding floated to the ground.
“I just felt like shooting at it again.” said Gin, standing some meters away. “Though your death would have been added benefit.” he muttered as he left for the second time.
Vermouth growled under her breath as Gin’s footsteps faded into the night.
She turned back around.
With slow and deliberate steps, she walked up to the grave. Her boots sunk slightly into the sherry-soaked ground. Carefully she placed the flower in her hand in front of the grave- a carnation, its color lost to the darkness of the night. Vermouth knew that it was yellow.
Yellow for hatred. Yellow for contempt. Yellow for disappointment. Her lips curled in a bitter smirk.
She turned around abruptly and walked out of the graveyard.
Sherry could have been so much more. She had the intellect, she had the looks, and she could handle a gun. Vermouth thought. I could have taught her so much. Now that she has betrayed the organization, I have to kill her. She clenched her fist. How stupid. How stupid of Sherry.
Vermouth wondered if it had been because of Miyano Akemi. Somewhere in her sister, Sherry might have seen a world beyond the darkness and twisted morals of the organization.
Vermouth was reminded of an incident in New York. Her smirked widened. She wondered if someday she might switch sides, like Sherry. After all, she was already indebted to someone on the wrong side. Or the right, as society might see it.
She laughed to herself as she got into her car. Oh, she knew she’d be the one to kill Sherry, if only so that nobody would ever put a yellow carnation at her grave.
She’d stay black.