Guts And Glory

ACT I: CHAPTER ONE: SHIP TO WRECK

[a/n]: guys, guYS, im so nervous about this. i will acknowledge my lowkey obsession with pansy parkinson (who must be saved at all costs) as my inspiration for this fic. this isn't something i've ever written before, i'm trying for a new tone and i'm so excited to be writing in the voice of piper, you guys don't understand. so i've aimed for a morally ambigious character with a wide grey area, and i'm still fleshing her out but she's problematic and guys, you don't understand. anyway, before i just like combust bc pansy bloody parkinson is being channeled here so much, this will be a pretty short fic, i think, it depends how fast i get through the planned events. but please enjoy and let me know what you think.

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                        ACT I: CURTAIN RISES

                        CHAPTER ONE: SHIP TO WRECK

            Piper is clinical.

            Not even in a really weirdly obsessed with cleanliness kind of way—though, the last time Troy even attempted to lift his foot off the ground when he had shoes on and was sitting on her bed, it didn't end well, the simple thought of shoes on the bed makes Piper cringe—but apparently, as she was told aged 16 in her Maths lesson, in a coldly detached, unemotional kind of way. Which is surprising, Piper considers, if she wasn't too clinical to actually experience this aforementioned human emotion, because she had never considered herself in such a manner.

            Okay, sure, she hadn't cried when her Mum just upped and left when she was in year seven, resulting in her having to move to an inner city school at the behest of her Dad, I think it'll be so much better for you, Piper, meet some girls who aren't up their own arses, and she hadn't so much as batted an eyelid. If anything, it'd been a relief to stand on her doorstep and wave at the back of the woman who pushed her out and into this world.

            It isn't the only moment in Piper's 24 years of life where she has felt strangely disconnected from the moments happening in time. It's the small things, the odd moments where she didn't laugh in her English class when her 60-something English teacher thought he'd get all caught up in the things he could do back in his time, or even just the simple fact that she's been called a boring bitch more times than she remembers laughing during her teen years.

            So, Piper is clinical, and she has accepted this. Yes, she has reached this conclusion whilst standing in the bare space of her brand new, highly expensive flat in London, shades of white behind the dark clothes she's wearing. There is a suitcase beside her, and she pauses to set it straight, staring at blank walls, realising there is so much potential here, things to be done, actions to be taken but—

            Piper is supposedly a clinical little bitch, so she will buy a fancy sofa too nice for people to actually sit on, a gaudy piece of art to place above the fireplace, purchase black satin sheets to sit on her queen sized bed with an elaborate fancy headboard. She will do this, mainly because this is her aesthetic, this is what she's been waiting her whole life for, this is why she even bothered to return from Cape Town, another action to be taken on her checklist of life, and also:

            She's feeling pretty spiteful about having her return announced before she had the time to throw an ostentatious and far too over the top welcome home party, rooms filled with people she runs cold social circles around, flaunting her career, her money and her goddamn tits if that means that they will pause, turn to whisper to their friend that Piper has done well for herself, that she isn't some stupid delusional socialite princess born from money and inheriting power.