un. independent rachel olmstead ( bullet ) of amc's the killing, diverging from canon after 3.07. deux. this blog is for writing and entertainment purposes only.
material.
un. my writing will, at times, be trigger heavy. i'd advise you not to follow if you're sensitive to topics such as rape and assault, violence, etc. deux. some things will be tagged, others won't. if you need something tagged, contact me. i tag triggers with ' trigger / ' or ' trigger mention / '.
muse.
un. bullet is not an easy character to get along with. she's abrasive and confrontational, hot - headed, and has lived on the streets for upwards of two years. i won't water down her scrappy personality for anyone's benefit. deux. if her attitude becomes an issue during our thread, we can always plot something else out.
shipping.
un. the muse is canonically homosexual and presumably homoromantic, so there will be no f/m ships unless they're platonic. deux. given that bullet is fifteen ( and a victim of recent violent sexual assault, ) smut is unlikely.
following.
un. i'm very cautious with who i follow on this blog because i prefer to have a quiet dash. if you don't have any writing on your blog, i won't follow you back. deux.if you're writing with users who make me uncomfortable, i'll immediately and quietly unfollow, or refrain from following period. these users are blocked and blacklisted for a reason. i don't want them on my dash. trois. i won't follow purple prosers because i can't understand what's being written half the time.
verses.
un. multi - verse and crossover friendly. deux. current timeline takes place during her recovery after being beaten and left for dead in the trunk of a car. she sustained severe physical trauma, flatlining three times in the twenty-four hours that followed before slipping into comatose for nearly three months. details are still a work in progress.
❛ I GOT MORE BALLS THAN YOU!
name. rachel olmstead. aka. bullet. age. fifteen going on sixteen. gender. cis female, she/her pronouns. date of birth. october twenty-eighth. residence. seattle, wa.
appearance. slightly malnourished, weight fluctuating due to living on the streets for nearly three years. stands at five feet, three inches ( on a good day. ) sports jet black hair with a streak of dark blue in the front, often looking greasy and dirty, with the sides and back shaved close. wears men's clothing. always looks on the brink of catching a cold.
( previous ) living conditions. squalor. she hung around skid row during the day, and squatted wherever she could at night, mostly in abandoned buildings or at beacon when beds were available. maintained at least a semblance of personal hygiene, but her stained smile told a different tale. clothes rarely saw the inside of a washing machine.
current timeline. parents are currently fighting against child protective services, but because of their negligence and abandonment ( knowingly allowing their child to leave home and live on the streets ), have been stripped of legal custody. after being discharged from the hospital, detective stephen holder was granted temporary guardianship of bullet until she's well enough to be put in the foster - care system.
bullet has every intention of getting the hell out of dodge as soon as possible to avoid this happening. accustomed to the lifestyle of living on the streets, she would sooner die than let an adult have authority over her. despite her extensive injuries, she can still be found roaming skid row, attempting to regain the trust her affiliation with the police shattered.
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‘ nah, i mean — don’t matter if we’re supposed to be civilized, y’ know what i’m sayin’ ? people still kill each other. ’ it’s a quick recovery from a careless remark, almost a throwback to what linden once called him out on : he doesn’t have to share EVERY THOUGHT that runs through his head.
the micro - expressions her face works through are as obvious as his own lack of foresight, but the connotations are worse. bitter, like the taste in his mouth.
he probably shouldn’t let her smoke in here ; he does anyway. she’s not the type who needs permission.
another chuckle, grin obscured by the smoky haze of his last drag. ‘ it’s FREEZE - DRIED. it don’t count. you want breakfast, or not ? i’m starvin’. ’
❛ people do lots’a stupid ass shit. ‘n most of ‘em don’t even got a good reason ––––– ain’t worth twenty - five t’ life jus’ ‘cause some idiot pissed in your cheerios. ❜
there’s no shortage of scumbags in seattle. no shortage of bad guys, no shortage of crimes. but, she can count on one hand how many of them she would kill with bare hands and ( a seemingly ) guilt - free conscience. it goes without saying, that’s one line even bullet is hesitant to cross.
( why ? he deserves it. rapist piece of shit. )
another pull of smoke and nicotine to ease the nerves. she finally acknowledges the pang of hunger, despite being so accustomed to it. meals were never guaranteed before.
❛ yeah. … but i don’t want no nasty egg whites ‘n turkey bacon or whatever. shit tastes like grilled ass. ❜
arms fan out, quickly reclaiming the space he threatened to impede on ( subsequently blocking his mock attempt at getting close enough to touch. ) skin prickles, voice loud in her own ears.
❛ get the hell outta here. this ain’t even yo’ block, you li’l punk ass junkie bitch! you want me t’ kick your gumby lookin’ ass all th’ way back to the fuckin’ crack house ? ❜
‘ yeah. she’ll snap under stress, too. ‘n then you got the feral ones, dad killin’ off his own litter to get moms back in heat. don’t happen like that once they been domesticated — can’t say the same for all us two - legged fools. ’ catching that glance, he fishes out what’s left of a pack of victories from his pocket and tosses it onto the couch beside her.
leans back again, head canted, remembering the line she’d dropped about zoology class. tough to picture her at a boarding school, but maybe that’s the point. he lets out a low chuckle, tapping his cigarette over the ashtray.
‘ laugh it up, bullet. CHOLESTEROL is comin’ for your ass, just wait’ll y’ find your first grey hair. besides — i don’t eat meat. ’
❛ … y’ tellin’ me you worked a case where the dad killed his kids ‘cause he wanted t’ get some? ❜
she isn’t at the edge of her seat. hopes he might leave the conversation there. segue into something a little more her style. ( bullet isn’t the first who’s suffered at the hands of a man and she won’t be the last. she can’t feel bad for herself when there are others who have had it worse. who have lost more. it’s not fair to them. is it ?)
two cigarettes are appropriated from the pack, one tucked snug behind her ear while the other greets a flame.
❛ when’d you find yours ? sixty - five million years ago when dinosaurs were roamin’ earth ? ❜ leaning forward, she picks up an ashtray from the coffee table and re - situates, left leg hooked over the armrest, to balance it on her knee. ❛ bullshit. sausage ain’t vegetarian friendly, dumbass. who you think you’re try’na fool ? ❜
‘ ain’t nobody messin’ with it up in here. i am clean as a whistle. all i’m sayin’ is, you’re gonna be beggin’ for them painkillers before sun - up with this cold turkey shit. believe that. ’ weight shifts, exhale releasing plumes of smoke that don’t quite settle in the dim, yellowish light. ‘ y’ gotta slow it down, you know, wean yo’self. like cats. ’
like he didn’t do a few lines just weeks ago. like the pressure of NOT KNOWING didn’t have him climbing the fucking walls and knocking back ten drinks too many. she woke up : that’s what counts. she lived.
‘ — again with that processed, reprocessed, artificially flavored carcinogenic crap. i’m talkin’ real food, not the kind you been chokin’ down with a little five - finger discount. ’
❛ ––––– ain’t that what they all say ? ❜ fronts like she hadn’t bought dope off the street, dejected and broken - hearted, mere hours before she made one last desperate attempt to help. ( like she didn’t have the intention of loading herself up with poison, only to find a better use for it. ) didn’t even know the slang when poochie asked if she wanted points, or something else.
truth is, she wanted numb. wanted to relieve the pressure of anger and betrayal crushing her sternum.
❛ cats sometimes kill and eat their kittens. the ones that’re sick ‘n stuff. but, like … okay, so you’ve got this queen, right ? feelin’ threatened, can’t hide no where ‘n so she eats ‘em ‘cause that’s the only way she can protect ‘em from predators. ‘n she’ll also eat the dead ones so the others don’t get no diseases. ❜
she pauses, eyeing the cigarette hanging from his mouth.
❛ quit trippin’. i’ll eat what i eat. ‘cause unlike your crusty ass, youth’s still on my side. bet you couldn’t even scarf down a double cheeseburger without bitchin’ ‘bout your cholesterol or somethin’. ❜
junkyard little bitch. i don’t give a shit about you. there’s no 12 step program to atone for what was said, and an apology would most likely be met with a well - deserved fuck you. he shakes a cigarette loose, lights up as he leans back against the counter island. ‘ don’t judge a book by its cover, li’l man. gonna mess up your chi. i got hooked, i got clean, blah blah blah. at least take ‘em, uh, antibiotics — you hungry ? ’
trust your instinct, girl. nothin’ else. that’s the piece of profound advice she’d been given her first week living on the streets, free of charge. ( what you see is what you get ‘round here. )
he says not to judge a book by its cover and she can’t help but think it’s a little too late for that. wants to tell him to shove the philosophical bullshit up his ass. she doesn’t feel for him. doesn’t have enough sympathy to spare for tweakers. figures he wouldn’t want it, anyhow. ❛ you ever go back t’ that crap, i’ll kick your skinny white ass up ‘n down th’ block. i don’t mess with that shit. don’t even like messin’ with the people who do. ❜ it’s hard to avoid, though. everyone’s got their addictions.
❛ ––––– nah. already ate. lays dill pickle chips are the bomb, yo, f’real. you ever tried ‘em ? ❜
‘ ain’t too late t’ give cps a call. few days in, my dojo be lookin’ like club med. hey, they’re your pills — dump ‘em, sell ‘em, whatever. just don’t wake up itchin’ for a fix the next time those ribs start achin’ like a motherfucker. ’
❛ go ahead. ain’t that what you were plannin’ on doing before, anyway ?buryin’ my ass in the foster - care system ? or did’ja pussy out ? ❜ she scoffs at him, scowling the entire time it takes to situate comfortably on the couch. ❛ ––––– morphine ain’t worth jack on the fuckin’ street, yo. ‘n what the hell would you know about itchin’ for a fix ? y’ don’t look like no tweaker. ❜
‘ you don’t gotta keep sneakin’ around, bullet. there ain’t no curfew. ’ @junkyardteen.
❛ –––––! the hell are you talkin’ about ? i wasn’t sneakin’ nowhere. ❜ she plays off being startled with relative ease. didn’t even swing on him this time.