Finally acquired that pesky AO3 account.
Working on uploading everything now.
…And I mean everything.
eta: Okay, mostly everything.
Friend e-mails me with an idea for a science fiction novel he wants to collaborate on (and have me do most of the work, har, har). Details included. It sounds fairly interesting. As do most of his ideas.
This is what I sent back to him in response.
I do hope it goes somewhere.
His name is Carl.
Carl T. Montgomery. With a name like Carl you’d think he’d have gone and changed it ages ago. Been a Vincent, or a John. Maybe a Tyler, or a Bryan. He could have, you know, with all the time on his hands. He could have started up a group of Carls to end all Carls. Could have advanced on the powers that be and started a revolution.
He can’t be bothered with it anymore now. Frankly, he’s too busy dying. In this very moment, hopefully his last, he’s staring down the fog lights of a super light weight, super efficient bullet train. All the faster to end his life. All the faster to smear him across the rails. It’ll carry him for miles too. Just one long red line. It’ll be his last work, his final piece, a self portrait: Carl vs Society.
history of us
3:10 to yuma - charlie prince & ben wade
In a nest of rattle snakes, he was a king cobra.
By the time he was twelve he was killing and stealing. An orphan from the start was Charlie Prince. Kicking around, getting beat, biting back. He had a good bite too. Nice and strong, but abysmally young. His demeanor was of an itchy sort, always tense and ready, always wanting for some action, task, or play; hungry for chance, a risk, despair. He rarely rested, and for it he was as skinny as a broom handle. He did show patience however, and he did eat well. It was a sure thing. Saw to it every day.
In all his years and experiences Cloud has never quite had a challenge. When it comes to an example it’s just a matter of now versus then. His was a relatively normal childhood, he grew up in a small mountain town too far from anything to grow larger than a handful of families. There was an abundance of over-hashed secrets, and livestock. He recalls fire lit, starry nights, laughing, and climbing the water tower. He did well in school, got on fair enough with other kids, and never had to reach too far for a girl. He even kissed his mother good bye every morning. When he left there, he was under a veil of good wishes.
Now he lives, or currently resides (as he’s come to think of it), in the largest city on the continent. Not even a place to hang his hat here, or a bedroom, just streets and tunnels and the sewers. The nights are similar to the days in their darkness, fire light comes from barrels and wooden lean-tos. His life revolves around his work and his work is all consuming. Nine hours out of ten he’s on a job. Perfect for cultivating an introvert’s personality. The unchallenged position, the revered, feared, and otherwise overlooked position, he maintains by use of knowledge gleaned from involvement in stressful situations, odd cases, and many humanity testing events.
Geniality and good charm only go so far.
He doesn’t sleep well most nights. Certainly not like he did back home. But then there’s no comparison. At least there’s no permanent state of being there. At least he gets to wake up and do it all over again if he feels so inclined. Unlike the unlucky-in-debt business owner, or the swindling street rat, or the back-stabbing crony. They’re stuck on permanent. He meets them in his line of work. Most of then he cashes in on.
He’s a cleaner.
A sniper by preference.
A kind of new age sellsword, and been so since the end of the war. He left home and joined. That’s another story. He spent four years in a foreign land but has scars now, and a story, a history. Flashing bright lights make him irritable though, and he has severe untrusting trends, paranoia, and social anxieties. He might wake up in a cold sweat. He might scream out. For all of that business, he’s gained a sharpened wit and the taste for survival. Not to mention an excellent training pedigree, first of his class. He’s a regular shadow, a change in the air, an unfurling presence.
Not a damn thing can touch him, stalwart and steadfast.
“I think it might do you some good,” she tries, noting the mounting petulance in her voice. He notes it as well, his response a scowl, a seething and a glaring. She should expect to get hit. Usually she does and no matter how feeble, but he’s far enough away. The assault comes in the form of her favourite paper weight instead. The one right there on the end table and right next to him. The one that’s six sharp inches all accounted for and shaped like a pyramid. Formed for a place so far away it might as well be make believe. It doesn’t just break as it misses her, it strikes the wall and explodes, glassy particles twisting and turning, glittering sun burst. The bits rain down on her head and shoulders. She hunches up in surprise, a handful of transparent mulch weaseling into her shirt.
Did you know that the worst thing someone can say to you is that they’ll always be there? They’ve got your back, they’ve got your side, they’ve got your number. They’ll be there. They will. Even better if they say it in the dark not even looking you in the eye, not even letting you see their eyes just the flat out, flat on words from somewhere, nowhere, and Murphy’s mouth.