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Fic: Dreams; Kill Bill; Rated R for violence
Title: Dreams
Fandom: Kill Bill
Characters: Bride aka Beatrix Kiddo, Elle Driver, Go-Go Yubari, O-Ren Ishii
Rating/Warnings: Maybe R for violent imagery. Spoilers for Parts I and II, plus some speculation about possibilities afterwards. Genfic, multicharacter.
Notes: Written as part of Yuletide '08 for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kagehikario, who asked for Bride aka Beatrix Kiddo/Elle Driver/Go-Go Yubari/O-Ren Ishii, and added that "It's Kill Bill; violence, blood, introspection, s'all good. Character exploration would be especially nice." I made sure to include all these characters and did my best to include a bit of both blood and introspection.
The Bride dreams, or at least she thinks it's a dream.
She dreams of the parched heat of a one-room church in the middle of fucking nowhere, Texas. The wedding party tracks dusty footprints along the aisles; the wooden floorboards creak under their weight until the sound gives way to the roar of gunfire and laughter.
She jerks and tumbles, not in slow-motion like she'd expect in a dream, but in a rush of whizzing lead and punctured lungs. A hush falls and the floorboards creak again. Bill's face appears, his eyes brimming with tears, and he pulls the trigger like it's an act of love.
She dreams of the sour smell of antiseptic and the stench of bedpans left unchanged too long. She dreams of needle pricks, of tepid spongebaths, and of fat, clammy hands that poke at her flesh and roll her over like a sticky piece of dough. Her limbs are leaden and immobile, so she knows the dream must be a nightmare. It doesn't surprise her, then, when the weight presses down and down upon her torso. She struggles to breathe, but as she gasps for air, the grunts and wheezes that she hears aren't her own.
She dreams of voices: most strange; some familiar. Indifferent, mocking, and hateful in turn, they don't speak to her, but rather around her, as if she had ceased to matter.
She dreams of all those things, or at least she hopes it's a dream. Then her eyes open and she knows it wasn't a dream at all.
***
O-Ren doesn't allow herself to dream. Not since the day she huddled under a bed and learned that the worst nightmares are those that take place when you're awake.
Now, instead of dreams, she has ambitions. Goals. Objectives. The more absurd and unlikely they are to attain, the more tenaciously -- no, rapaciously -- she pursues them. She celebrates each achievement in her relentless, brutal progress; she savors each failure as a lesson learned and an opportunity to try again. The lessons, however, grow fewer and fewer as the achievements continue to mount. She amasses power, money, influence, possessions -- even people. They're all objects to be bought or sold; hoarded or bartered; taken or discarded without attachment or regret.
Now, instead of dreams, she indulges in whims. Caprices. Random impulses. Is she in the mood for a five-course dinner? A diamond necklace? A new jet? The severed head of a rival, delivered on ice and placed on a spike? She need only snap her fingers and an army is ready to cater to her desires, no matter how petty, frivolous, or violent. No one dares question her. No one dares deny her. No one even dares hesitate. If they do, she'll strike them dead -- unless her whim that day happens to be merciful. After all, the offer of forgiveness is an expression of power, too.
Ambitions and goals, whims and caprices: she allows herself all those things. But dreams? Dreams are beyond control; dreams have their own minds and volition; dreams can leave you feeling helpless, frightened, and alone.
O-Ren gave up dreams long ago.
***
As a child, Go-Go used to dream about blood-soaked battles, frenzied orgies of flashing blades, screams and slaughter. They played like movies in her mind, complete with music, lighting and choreography. Mangled body parts fell in rhythm; victims writhed and groaned in chorus. As a mist of brain tissue thickened the air, bile and intestines spilled from slit bellies like tumbling waterfalls.
In the dream, she was always the hero. Or maybe the villain. It didn't matter what you called it, really. As long as she was the victor, the last one standing in a circle of carnage. When the final corpse thumped, lifeless, to the ground, she'd lick a salty taste of blood from her hand. Then she'd wake, laughing with excitement and moist between the legs.
Now, she sees Sofie's arm fly off with a burst of bright-red blood like the spray from a sliced orange. The crowd at the House of Blue Leaves turns into a fleeing mass, slipping and scrambling in panic on the crimson-stained floor. Terrified, they shove each other out the doors, but Go-Go simply stands and smiles. She has nothing against Sofie, of course, but it's all just so beautiful.
For the moment, she waits and watches the yellow-clad figure do all the choreography alone. Soon, it will be Go-Go's turn to join in, and she'll make some beauty of her own.
It's a dream come true.
***
Each night, Elle dreams in vivid color. Each morning, she wakes up to darkness.
She's learned to shower and dress without any help by now. She can cook and feed herself without spilling, or if she does, she can't see it anyway, so she doesn't give a fuck. She's got all the furniture precisely arranged and committed to memory. Every so often, she still makes a mistake and stubs a toe; she curses loudly even when it doesn't really hurt that much, just on general principle.
All in all, however, she manages, which is more than she can say for her companion.
Out for a walk, she adjusts her sunglasses and tightens her grip on the handles of the wheelchair.
"To the right, you idiot," says Sofie with a rising whine to her voice, "or you'll steer us off the sidewalk."
"Shut up, Stumpy," Elle snarls, but she pushes the chair in the direction Sofie indicates. If only she could push that chair right over a cliff, but then who would tell her when she had food stuck between her teeth?
They despise each other -- they always have, even when Bill was alive -- but now they also need each other. They're the two survivors. The two not worthy enough for Beatrix Kiddo to bother finishing off. They're trapped with only each other for company; with only each other for commiseration and understanding; and, most importantly, with only each other to feed and nurture their shared hatred of the one who turned them into a two-woman freak show. The one they both dream about, whether asleep or awake, day or night, dark or light, without respite.
Alone, they dream of their defeats. Together, they dream of vengeance.
For those of you who prefer to read at the official Yuletide site, the link is here.
Fandom: Kill Bill
Characters: Bride aka Beatrix Kiddo, Elle Driver, Go-Go Yubari, O-Ren Ishii
Rating/Warnings: Maybe R for violent imagery. Spoilers for Parts I and II, plus some speculation about possibilities afterwards. Genfic, multicharacter.
Notes: Written as part of Yuletide '08 for
kagehikario, who asked for Bride aka Beatrix Kiddo/Elle Driver/Go-Go Yubari/O-Ren Ishii, and added that "It's Kill Bill; violence, blood, introspection, s'all good. Character exploration would be especially nice." I made sure to include all these characters and did my best to include a bit of both blood and introspection.The Bride dreams, or at least she thinks it's a dream.
She dreams of the parched heat of a one-room church in the middle of fucking nowhere, Texas. The wedding party tracks dusty footprints along the aisles; the wooden floorboards creak under their weight until the sound gives way to the roar of gunfire and laughter.
She jerks and tumbles, not in slow-motion like she'd expect in a dream, but in a rush of whizzing lead and punctured lungs. A hush falls and the floorboards creak again. Bill's face appears, his eyes brimming with tears, and he pulls the trigger like it's an act of love.
She dreams of the sour smell of antiseptic and the stench of bedpans left unchanged too long. She dreams of needle pricks, of tepid spongebaths, and of fat, clammy hands that poke at her flesh and roll her over like a sticky piece of dough. Her limbs are leaden and immobile, so she knows the dream must be a nightmare. It doesn't surprise her, then, when the weight presses down and down upon her torso. She struggles to breathe, but as she gasps for air, the grunts and wheezes that she hears aren't her own.
She dreams of voices: most strange; some familiar. Indifferent, mocking, and hateful in turn, they don't speak to her, but rather around her, as if she had ceased to matter.
She dreams of all those things, or at least she hopes it's a dream. Then her eyes open and she knows it wasn't a dream at all.
***
O-Ren doesn't allow herself to dream. Not since the day she huddled under a bed and learned that the worst nightmares are those that take place when you're awake.
Now, instead of dreams, she has ambitions. Goals. Objectives. The more absurd and unlikely they are to attain, the more tenaciously -- no, rapaciously -- she pursues them. She celebrates each achievement in her relentless, brutal progress; she savors each failure as a lesson learned and an opportunity to try again. The lessons, however, grow fewer and fewer as the achievements continue to mount. She amasses power, money, influence, possessions -- even people. They're all objects to be bought or sold; hoarded or bartered; taken or discarded without attachment or regret.
Now, instead of dreams, she indulges in whims. Caprices. Random impulses. Is she in the mood for a five-course dinner? A diamond necklace? A new jet? The severed head of a rival, delivered on ice and placed on a spike? She need only snap her fingers and an army is ready to cater to her desires, no matter how petty, frivolous, or violent. No one dares question her. No one dares deny her. No one even dares hesitate. If they do, she'll strike them dead -- unless her whim that day happens to be merciful. After all, the offer of forgiveness is an expression of power, too.
Ambitions and goals, whims and caprices: she allows herself all those things. But dreams? Dreams are beyond control; dreams have their own minds and volition; dreams can leave you feeling helpless, frightened, and alone.
O-Ren gave up dreams long ago.
***
As a child, Go-Go used to dream about blood-soaked battles, frenzied orgies of flashing blades, screams and slaughter. They played like movies in her mind, complete with music, lighting and choreography. Mangled body parts fell in rhythm; victims writhed and groaned in chorus. As a mist of brain tissue thickened the air, bile and intestines spilled from slit bellies like tumbling waterfalls.
In the dream, she was always the hero. Or maybe the villain. It didn't matter what you called it, really. As long as she was the victor, the last one standing in a circle of carnage. When the final corpse thumped, lifeless, to the ground, she'd lick a salty taste of blood from her hand. Then she'd wake, laughing with excitement and moist between the legs.
Now, she sees Sofie's arm fly off with a burst of bright-red blood like the spray from a sliced orange. The crowd at the House of Blue Leaves turns into a fleeing mass, slipping and scrambling in panic on the crimson-stained floor. Terrified, they shove each other out the doors, but Go-Go simply stands and smiles. She has nothing against Sofie, of course, but it's all just so beautiful.
For the moment, she waits and watches the yellow-clad figure do all the choreography alone. Soon, it will be Go-Go's turn to join in, and she'll make some beauty of her own.
It's a dream come true.
***
Each night, Elle dreams in vivid color. Each morning, she wakes up to darkness.
She's learned to shower and dress without any help by now. She can cook and feed herself without spilling, or if she does, she can't see it anyway, so she doesn't give a fuck. She's got all the furniture precisely arranged and committed to memory. Every so often, she still makes a mistake and stubs a toe; she curses loudly even when it doesn't really hurt that much, just on general principle.
All in all, however, she manages, which is more than she can say for her companion.
Out for a walk, she adjusts her sunglasses and tightens her grip on the handles of the wheelchair.
"To the right, you idiot," says Sofie with a rising whine to her voice, "or you'll steer us off the sidewalk."
"Shut up, Stumpy," Elle snarls, but she pushes the chair in the direction Sofie indicates. If only she could push that chair right over a cliff, but then who would tell her when she had food stuck between her teeth?
They despise each other -- they always have, even when Bill was alive -- but now they also need each other. They're the two survivors. The two not worthy enough for Beatrix Kiddo to bother finishing off. They're trapped with only each other for company; with only each other for commiseration and understanding; and, most importantly, with only each other to feed and nurture their shared hatred of the one who turned them into a two-woman freak show. The one they both dream about, whether asleep or awake, day or night, dark or light, without respite.
Alone, they dream of their defeats. Together, they dream of vengeance.
For those of you who prefer to read at the official Yuletide site, the link is here.