Jan. 6th, 2017

feminine_menace: (Thrasher Girl)
There's this particular red VW microbus in the garage. Some creative person took out the back two rows of seats and installed shag carpeting and bean bag chairs. YT will sometimes hang out in there with the side doors open, usually when she wants to study.

With a post-winter-break quiz looming (because YT's Italian teacher is a fucking sadist), YT decides it's time to retreat to the microbus with her language textbook. She opens the side doors, places the books inside, and jumps into the back, like usual.

The side doors slam shut behind her, which is not usual. Nor is the steady beep, beep, beep coming from the front end of the vehicle. Puzzled and annoyed, YT leans over the front bench seat to see 'sup.

Under the dashboard is something that wasn't there before. It's a collection of wires and little bits of machinery about the size of a thick briefcase. On it, angled upward so she can see it, is a little digital readout that says 1:52, then 1:51, and then 1:50. Each time the number decrements the device makes a beep noise.

It takes YT to the count of 1:49 to process what she's seeing, and when she does, her stomach shrinks to the size of a fist and her heart tries to climb out her throat. Shit shit shit!

YT darts to the side door and tries the handle. No dice. She notices that the little door lock posts are down, so she tries to pull them up. They're stuck - no matter how hard she pulls, she can't get them to come up.

"Fuck!" she shouts, throwing herself at the back door - no good - and then at the driver and front passenger doors. She feels like she's going to be sick, but she doesn't have time to be sick, there's only...


seconds left.

"Shit shit shit!" YT looks around frantically for a way out. Her throat is dry, her heart feels like it's trying to bust through her ribcage, and the beeping of the timer is loud in her ears.

It comes to her: the only way out is to break a window. There really isn't anything in the microbus that she can use to smash the windows, so she'll have to rely on her own muscles. YT vaults into the front seat and curls up her legs with her feet pointing at the windshield. She takes a deep breath, braces her back against the seat, and kicks. Once. Twice. Three times. She makes a small spiderweb of cracks, which gets bigger and bigger with each kick.

Finally the windshield gives, shards spraying outwards and tinkling on the floor of the garage. YT pushes through the opening, arms held up to protect her face, her blood pounding in her ears. Luckily her coverall keeps her from taking any glass-related damage on the way through the hole. But when she lands badly and hits the broken glass on the garage floor, she manages to open a nasty gash in her cheek. She's so freaked out she doesn't even feel it. She just stumbles to her feet, running around the side of the VW, trying frantically to get out of range before the bomb goes off.

She doesn't make it in time.

There are three loud THOOMS that she feels more than hears, in quick succession, and a breath of intense heat. YT is knocked off her feet, or maybe she just does a total BSOD, because the next thing she knows she's curled up in a ball on the garage floor, shaking and struggling to breathe, head aching, ears ringing. There's a smell of burned metal and plastic in the air so strong it makes her want to barf. She also feels like she may have pissed herself.

YT looks up and around, blinking slowly. The VW microbus is intact. What the fuck? But three other nearby vehicles - a Hummer, a Corvette, and a minivan - have been reduced to smoking, burning husks.

Something silvery flashes in the corner of YT's eye as it speeds away. She's not sure what it was.

YT's mind goes back to Christmas, when someone sent her a countdown timer with no note. She had a pretty good idea of who sent it, but she didn't know what it meant.

Well, now she knows.

Jim Moriarty. Fuck.


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January 2017

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