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Challenge of the Week CCXXXI
You're in an alley, against a wall, and you're in deep. You really let go of the wheel this time, took a loan from a certain group of, well, shiny dark-haired gentlemen of the city streets. You changed your looks, moved to the east side of town to avoid them, but they have you now, by the wrist, modified cigar cutter ready, two of them smiling at you while the third has your neck in the crease of his elbow. Your four fingers and thumb splayed above your wrist in grip, you have to answer the question, "Which one? If you don't pick now, we take two." Write a poem or story about what put you in that alley, your pick of digit, and the experience, the aftermath of adaptation, if you want, the whole story, if the story goes that far for you. And don't even think about not entering, because we know people, you know? - Winner gets 25 bucks. Go.
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rraven
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Blood and Silver

I wipe at a dribble of spit that comes from the henchman on my left with my shoulder just barely, forcing a grimace back and pushing myself to maintain eye contact with their little leader who's hunkering just above me, grinning. His eyes are a nearly blinding form of grey-- like the damned silver dress caught beneath the light the night I sold just a bit of my soul to the Initiative leader in a club as I begged for help. It's the same silver my hair is now; a sloppy cropped bob I did with a cigarette between my lips in the dingy, backlit gas station a handful of months ago. I always wanted a quiet life. Ending up in the big city was not such-- but what is one to do, with ten thousand dollars and a dream of getting the fuck out of Argentille? Its stupid.

I think about the twinkle lights above my childhood bedroom, and how my mother must spend most nights sobbing beneath them now in my farewell-less dissapearence. My father, who left when I was barely 9, always told me to never ask for a handout from family. So I asked it from the man that ran my town-- the initiative. We had bio government other than the pale, grey eyed group of men in suits with matching slicked back platinum hair. Their motto was blood and silver. It was part of us all. How silly to try and outrun your birthright.

I look down to my hands. My lips are cracked, creased with blood and shrug beneath the choking grip. "Take my ring finger." Theres a cheap gold ring on it; the only thing I brought as I escaped the town. My fathers wedding ring."

Theres more spit-- this parituvclar henchman form of laughter, and then the searing pain of metal cutting bone. The stench of metal on metal fills my senses until the bile is thick on my tongue; the sound-- tear, creak, creak, tear; worse than anything else.

I drop my head back into the cool grip of the man behind me as the soundless, nameless henchman continues his massacre of my hand. I blink blearily up at the sky-- silver starts. Silver moon. There's a clatter of my ring, worth less than my finger, but enough for the Initiative leader that wants nothing more than to remind me my blood runs cool as argent. I take a breath, and let a smile ghost my lips. 10,000 for the price of a finger. I could drink that ache away.

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