I wanted to do more with the cracks but by the time I finished editing this down to 300 words, playtime was over. But such as it is, have a read of my latest response to a Random Michelle Photo Fiction Challenge.
The bullet hole is tattooed over the scar covering the left side of her chest. Anyone who sees its cracked lines up close, usually, sees their death. Don’t cry for them. She doesn’t go looking for trouble.
Being a factionless mutant in such times is dangerous. The scar on her chest is evidence that that danger’d nearly ended her. Few could survive a bullet through the heart. Self-healing is a part of her mutation but there was only so much her body could do against a bullet. It spit it out and a lot of her blood with it. It was after that that her skin took on its strange bluish-green tint, due to anemia; that light had unleashed another aspect of her mutation, a protective heat as deadly as radiation.
The night I met her I was bedded down in an alley with nothing but newspaper for cover. It had President Blowhard’s orange face on it. His mutation was a karizma that hypnotized many. Not me. I had resistance. I planned to wipe my ass with his face when I did my business in the morning.
I recognized her right away; her aura was bright like she was fresh from a fight. But she was shivering – it was her curse that the heat she emitted only made her colder. She stopped when she saw the alley was already occupied.
I didn’t see death. I saw a girl alone and drained of everything. I raised myself up slightly, silently offering her the questionable warmth of my newspaper blanket and the heat from my many days unwashed body. She looked at me for the longest while, aura wavering. My mouth dried. Then her light abruptly dimmed and she all but fell in to me.
We’ve been together ever since.