bantha_fodder: ([pretender] miss p and the crane)
[personal profile] bantha_fodder
like you're not in my sight by pen
The Pretender, Miss Parker at CNY in Penang, G

Yeah, like I'd write about anywhere else, especially at this time of year.

Thanks to Piecesof


When Broots puts it all together, when he exclaims, "Jarod's in Malaysia?!" Parker thinks about the stamps in her passport and is relieved.

About time he started branching out. Life's no fun if you don't get out and see the world.

She grins, orders Broots to book the jet; keeps an eye out for her brother.


She steps onto the tarmac and into the sweltering, humid heat of Penang. She starts to sweat, and it is a relief to enter the climate controlled comfort of the airport.

A phalanx of business men herd towards her; at her glare they part around her like the sea. When one brushes by and she suspects an attempted groping, she tilts her foot; he goes sprawling, and she keeps on walking

In the heat she eyes off the taxi drivers, all of them yelling for her fare; takes a deep breath and picks one, doesn't take her eyes off the cars as he darts through five lanes of traffic on three lane roads.


Parker is from a country of people who can't drive, so this isn't the worst, but it's pretty fucking close.

She leans back; lights up a cigarette.


The city is noisy, and hot, and after getting her shoe caught twice in a drain cover she questions the wisdom of her heels, but fuck it, she can walk in them anywhere, she's not going to be defeated by some tiny town on an island in the middle of nowhere.

She keeps wearing the shoes, keeps following the clues.


He's not as clever as he thinks.


She sees Jarod's handiwork in a little Indian shop; sees his reflection in the fundraising tin at a temple to Kuan Yin. The tiny monks smile at her, and she smiles back; flips through the little red notebooks he left behind.


"He was just here also," a hotel attendant says, and she thinks, finally.


She sits at a table, watches the motorbikes pass by. She waves off the yelling chef, but finally orders a plate of noodles; she can wield a mean pair of chopsticks but she doesn't want to spill soup on herself on the odd chance he turns up.

Not the odd chance. He'll turn up. She knows he will.

She wanders through a wet market, recognises his handiwork in a commotion over the road. She's been doing this for a while now, so she leans back and lights a cigarette. On the wall beside her a length of firecrackers sits, prepared and ready. Its leading edge runs into a shop front.

In the distance, she thinks she sees a familiar shadow.

Miss Parker looks down, presses her cigarette to the edge and holds it there.

The thread sparks, and she looks up, sets her cigarette to her lips.

Behind her, the firecrackers crackle, and she smells paper burning.

She blows smoke out into the night air.

She knows how to smoke him out.

Parker waits.

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