Because I've nothing to say, I'm posting an old fanfic about Shakima on patrol. It's on the fanfic section of the forum but, you know how it is. In lieu of a Hallmark Card...
Every day a mission into the heart of darkness. Noah in an empty boat, not about to wait for rain.
Every mission a chance for redemption - not for herself, she was guiltless. But maybe she could curry a little favor from God, and delay Apocalypse one more day, saving the world one motherfucking wretch at a time.
Kima the Gladiator, the Arch Angel, the Crusader, the Princess Charming, Don Kima FuckQuing-xote rode her SUV into the insane heart of darkness nearly every night, ever on the look-out for a soul to avenge.
Take Omar’s boy for instance. They didn’t have to do him like that. The economy of mercy dictated that when he was no longer of use to them, come the swift bullet to the brain. It wasn’t in their nature to leave it at that, so they killed him, and they resurrected him, then they killed him twice and brought him back again just so they could kill him even worse than the first two times.
Kima couldn’t imagine the pain.
Even sadder: she couldn’t imagine the love that would transcend such pain.
But she was familiar with the hatred, and knew it may as well have been her, some other time, some other circumstance.
Maybe someday it would. She hoped she’d acquit herself as well for the one she loved, but she doubted it. She certainly couldn’t imagine it.
She couldn’t sleep at night anyway, so the heart of darkness was as good a place as any to ice her raging heart.
And she wasn’t very good company for those left home alone, who didn’t need saving, didn’t ask for it, didn’t want it, wouldn’t take it if offered.
So she trolled the insane heart of darkness with a mission of revenge, today on behalf of Omar’s loss. Tomorrow: maybe somebody else’s. Every day brought the opportunity for atrocity. Every atrocity brought the opportunity for leveling the playing field, one motherfucking wretch at a time.
But tonight was for Brandon, forever young and almost beautiful still in death, for she’d seen the corpse, oh yes. She had to look, because she knew one day that may be her lying there, murdered five or six times over because of some irrational hatred, and she needed to see what that looked like. She needed to imagine her own face of death over the face of one who surely died for love.
Lotta ghosts in her line of work. Some of them are bound to linger for awhile, but they do all go away.
God, boogeymen and angels, walking side by side, with Kima their lonely witness.
Sometimes driving around the darkened junk-filled streets she’d hear a ripping in her brain, but it always went away before she could identify why it seemed so familiar. That deju vu of pain - if she’d only known it was just the wretches’, now ghosts, parting sighs.
No justice, no peace, until there is an official HBO thread for Brandon Wright.