Writing to beat the band
Apr. 16th, 2003 06:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowSeveral stories in progress. I just can't seem to help myself! I need to pick one, focus and finish, but my brain keeps bouncing all over, inspiration striking left, right and smack on the forhead. I've been eaten by the fiction bug, which is keeping me from the payment potential of "Why Five Highly Educated and Fully Employed Women Chose to Participate in Something Called the Belly Dancer of the Universe Contest" as well as " Blank Blank (insert full name of roommate her) and the Intergalactic Space Nazis, or how M. Learned to Stop Slacking and Love the Bomb." That article is dedicated solely to the three months where M. would watch Chrichton Kicks almost every night at 3 a.m., and in fact purchased a CD of the 1812 overture to further torment me.
Anyway, back from the tangent, since I'm actually going to tackle Latitutes and Longitudes first, but don't want to lose momentum on the Aeryn's summer vacation story, I'm going to post the opening to it here.
Hit or Miss
Aeryn pulls the collar of her coat more tightly around her neck as water droplets slide inside, and simultaneously curses the endless damp and downpour of the frelling backwater planet she’s found herself on. Wet, cold, dressed in ridiculous clothing, she is camped out in an alley waiting for Baiselle, her extremely late frelling contact, to confirm that the hit has been successful.
She arches her back and grimaces at the knots and aches that have taken up residence, pain that the continuous rain is doing nothing to alleviate.
“Used to be able to stand guard for eight arns without fidgeting,” she mutters to herself. “Didn’t get bored or tired. Of course, I never had to stand in the rain before wearing some tralk’s skin tight garments either.” It occurs to her that she’s talking to herself and she frowns. Apparently nowhere in the galaxy is she safe from Chrichton’s influence.
Baiselle is always late, but this is excessive and Aeryn’s mood darkens further. Wet, bloody, uncomfortable, hiding in an alley that reeks of refuse and something not to far away that’s she’s pretty sure is creating the tangy scent of death – these are not the visions she conjured for herself upon first deciding to seek out the anti-terrorism squad.
Shining equipment, crisp uniforms, camaraderie and privacy and, frell, Sebaceans, shipmates who didn’t interfere in her life and didn’t destroy her with their deaths, just causes and clean combat and she shakes her head sharply to rid herself of an unholy song about gloves and kittens – whatever the frell those were – and string that John had sung to himself during Harvey’s earliest incarnation.
She tried to decipher the words, the images meaningless to her, and finally broke down and asked John. His reply, equally nonsensical, had been, “pulse pistols, and pilot, green food cubes and prowlers, these are a few of your favorite things.” “You are fahrbot,” she’d said and never asked again, afraid he’d explain further and equally unwilling to admit that, at times, he could’ve counted himself on that list.
The mental tangent does nothing to facilitate Baiselle’s arrival and 20 microts later Aeryn is read to search the informant out and twist off one of his tentacles, despite the danger to herself. Her hair is sodden, and nothing seems to be easing the rain’s procession down her back. The coat is too big, a result of her loss of body mass in the past six monens., and a large rent in the side from the previous hit makes it even more useless. There’s also a blood stain that’d only recently discovered as the blackish residue dripped into the puddle next to her.
Suddenly, shouts, a clamour and crash at the end of the alley alerts her to the arrival of her contact. He pelts towards her, tentacles flapping behind him, and she berates his name in every language that she knows and starts to run as quickly as her tight skirt will allow. Baiselle easily passes her, grabbing her hand to pull her along, but her movements are to hindered. Ignoring the armored enforcers clomping down the alley, she paused, pulls the skirt up her thighs and with a viscious tear, rips the front in two up to mid thigh.
“Come on, come on, they’re gaining on us,” the tinny, panicked voice of Baiselle pleads. Aeryn’s pretty sure he’d leave her if he’d already been paid. She growls at him, drops the edges of the material and sprints forward, easily surpassing him.
She feels the blood pounding in her veins, counterpoint to the rain, and is aware of her breath, heavy in her lungs, and her exhileration overwhelms her discomfort. She knows she could stop, turn, shoot, but her pursuers are undoubtedly local law enforcement, well-deservedly chasing the executor of the hit. They are only doing their duty, and she will leave them alive. Soon, they’ll return the favor.
Anyway, back from the tangent, since I'm actually going to tackle Latitutes and Longitudes first, but don't want to lose momentum on the Aeryn's summer vacation story, I'm going to post the opening to it here.
Hit or Miss
Aeryn pulls the collar of her coat more tightly around her neck as water droplets slide inside, and simultaneously curses the endless damp and downpour of the frelling backwater planet she’s found herself on. Wet, cold, dressed in ridiculous clothing, she is camped out in an alley waiting for Baiselle, her extremely late frelling contact, to confirm that the hit has been successful.
She arches her back and grimaces at the knots and aches that have taken up residence, pain that the continuous rain is doing nothing to alleviate.
“Used to be able to stand guard for eight arns without fidgeting,” she mutters to herself. “Didn’t get bored or tired. Of course, I never had to stand in the rain before wearing some tralk’s skin tight garments either.” It occurs to her that she’s talking to herself and she frowns. Apparently nowhere in the galaxy is she safe from Chrichton’s influence.
Baiselle is always late, but this is excessive and Aeryn’s mood darkens further. Wet, bloody, uncomfortable, hiding in an alley that reeks of refuse and something not to far away that’s she’s pretty sure is creating the tangy scent of death – these are not the visions she conjured for herself upon first deciding to seek out the anti-terrorism squad.
Shining equipment, crisp uniforms, camaraderie and privacy and, frell, Sebaceans, shipmates who didn’t interfere in her life and didn’t destroy her with their deaths, just causes and clean combat and she shakes her head sharply to rid herself of an unholy song about gloves and kittens – whatever the frell those were – and string that John had sung to himself during Harvey’s earliest incarnation.
She tried to decipher the words, the images meaningless to her, and finally broke down and asked John. His reply, equally nonsensical, had been, “pulse pistols, and pilot, green food cubes and prowlers, these are a few of your favorite things.” “You are fahrbot,” she’d said and never asked again, afraid he’d explain further and equally unwilling to admit that, at times, he could’ve counted himself on that list.
The mental tangent does nothing to facilitate Baiselle’s arrival and 20 microts later Aeryn is read to search the informant out and twist off one of his tentacles, despite the danger to herself. Her hair is sodden, and nothing seems to be easing the rain’s procession down her back. The coat is too big, a result of her loss of body mass in the past six monens., and a large rent in the side from the previous hit makes it even more useless. There’s also a blood stain that’d only recently discovered as the blackish residue dripped into the puddle next to her.
Suddenly, shouts, a clamour and crash at the end of the alley alerts her to the arrival of her contact. He pelts towards her, tentacles flapping behind him, and she berates his name in every language that she knows and starts to run as quickly as her tight skirt will allow. Baiselle easily passes her, grabbing her hand to pull her along, but her movements are to hindered. Ignoring the armored enforcers clomping down the alley, she paused, pulls the skirt up her thighs and with a viscious tear, rips the front in two up to mid thigh.
“Come on, come on, they’re gaining on us,” the tinny, panicked voice of Baiselle pleads. Aeryn’s pretty sure he’d leave her if he’d already been paid. She growls at him, drops the edges of the material and sprints forward, easily surpassing him.
She feels the blood pounding in her veins, counterpoint to the rain, and is aware of her breath, heavy in her lungs, and her exhileration overwhelms her discomfort. She knows she could stop, turn, shoot, but her pursuers are undoubtedly local law enforcement, well-deservedly chasing the executor of the hit. They are only doing their duty, and she will leave them alive. Soon, they’ll return the favor.
