Tangible Schizophrenia


Three Knocks

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: See below.
Pairing: Varies from drabble to drabble; see individual notes.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: The traditional warning of death’s approach.


Specialist: G, Elle, for wingedkiare

Vernita did knives of all sizes, shapes and lengths. O-ren was precision tradition from beginning to end; her rifle got ditched as soon as she could get her tiny manicures on a Japanese sword. But even she, the most quantitatively successful of them all, didn’t have the honor of carrying a Hanzo. That was saved for Budd and the Bitch.

Now, Budd Elle could understand, because blood went deep and dark and couldn’t be denied. But B? Hell. She was smooth and blonde-pretty and pouty, but Elle could do that too.

That was Elle’s deal, after all. She didn’t cling to a weapon because she was the weapon. And everything else? Just tools, honey. So it shouldn’t have mattered that she didn’t get Pai Mei’s blessing, that she didn’t get a Hanzo.

It shouldn’t have.

* * *

Check: PG-13, Beatrix/Elle, for kspooks

Bill she loves because he understands her, because he understands what pull wakes her in the morning and which strings make her smile and why she doesn’t mind killing people. He knows the reasons for which she fights.

But Elle—darling cunt-sister, who tastes like caffeine and copper—Elle knows her. Elle knows the inside of her snarl, the flick of her sword-tip over flesh, the rip of her fight. She hates the bitch for it, but she can’t do anything about it. Neither of them can. And sometimes, when Bill’s flute is a grate down red-raw nerves and his soft voice rouses darker things than even he realizes…sometimes she needs that hate. Needs to slam it back into the wall and bite its laugh right off its face.

When that happens, she pauses and leans back to look, and for a moment, she thinks she has Elle.

* * *

Territorial: PG, crossover with Once Upon a Time in Mexico, Sands and Elle, for khohen1

He’s got a feeling she’s blonde. It’s just a feeling, mind, because his means of verifying said intuition have long since been scraped off his cheekbones, but he’ll bet he’s right. “Been here long?”

“I’m not interested. To be more precise, I’m fucking busy already.” Swishy sound. A couple months ago, he’d know better than to come up with ‘sword’ for an explanation. But this is not a couple months ago, and Sands has been listening very closely to the gossip lines.

“I wasn’t offering. Just wanted a tequila. But hey, if the fucking bartender’s out, he’s out.” Sands toys with his cane, wondering how well it’d stand up. Just toying, because he’s really not so stupid as to go that route. “You know, town square’s already babbling about the eyeless American.”

He can feel her smile vibrate across the intervening space. “Really. That must be confusing.”

“A little. Word of advice, though. This side of the border’s not a personal playground.” Careful to avoid the bodies, he steps back out the door and turns. Doesn’t sound like she’s following.

Good. Because Sands is not one to share.