Post by Eurydice on Jul 30, 2007 18:06:55 GMT -5
((Started writing a Steampunk parody in script format, something which I haven't done for a while, but I haven't actually figured out what it's about yet, which makes writing it somewhat difficult.
In the meantime, here is some more angst.
Events leading up to this: it's the afternoon that Jo receives a visit from some police folk in regards to one Avery Blake. Knowing that it's a trap but deciding to walk into it anyway, Jo agrees to meet with him one last time and, assuming that she's not going to survive the encounter, sets about putting her affairs in order. This process is interrupted by a surprise visit from Will, who in the years after the Martians, has gone off and become a spy-assassin-type. After catching up with him for a while, Jo says that she has some errands to run, and will he stay behind and deliver some important papers to Elizabeth? Will pushes to tag along but eventually agrees. However, intrigued by a message in cypher on top of the papers, Will does some investigating and finds a letter (jeparry.livejournal.com/11792.html) that Jo has just written to Elizabeth.
Wanted to try a different voice for this; never wrote anything in the imperative before, but for some reason, that's how I kept thinking of it when I'd compose sections of it in my mind.
/long and rambling intro))
Set the papers down on the desk, now that you’re out of her sight, and let the jumbled letters shift themselves into words until the message becomes clear, as does the fact that it’s more a safeguard against someone reading the words accidentally than an actual attempt to keep the meaning hidden. Note with worry the fact that she used such a simple, easy-to-crack cipher, the uncharacteristic rushed sloppiness of her actions. Flip through the pages, as the coded message instructs, to the thirteenth from the back, and let your carefully trained eyes scan the letter in her careful, precise handwriting, recognizing the darkly resigned undertones of her flatly straightforward diction.
Break into her room, remembering how you used to approach and reproach her with timidity, hesitation, but no more. See her standing there, clad in impeccable black from head to toe (a sure sign that her venture forth tonight is anything but innocuous), and her immediate recognition that you know. Berate her for taking you for a fool, when she knows full well what you are.
Refuse to back down; don’t let her hide behind hollow excuses and futile attempts to pull rank. You’re not the teenaged boy with a hero-worship complex anymore—you’re a grown man, a carefully honed weapon, looking out for a friend who can’t separate what she says she wants from what she needs. You’re an intelligence-gathering agent, a well-kept device adept at finding out, forcing the information out of anything. Force the information out of her now; wring it out of her, until she confesses the purpose of her departure and why it is far from likely that she will be returning.
Accept her story on the condition that you’ll go with her, anticipating her protests, pleading and desperate, knowing that all it takes is your being willing to say, “No, you won’t” just once more than she says, “Yes, I will.” Don’t stop pushing; make the final ultimatum, knowing that she knows you’ll follow her even if she refuses you. You know she’ll have no choice but to give in—and she does.
See her standing there, black coat, vest, shirt, trousers all contrasting sharply with the pallor of skin and yellow hair, lighter and a little thinner than it used to be. Notice, with those sharply trained eyes, the miniscule movements of her trembling limbs and their wiry muscles, the slouch in her shoulders, eyes closed, as if not having to look at you standing before her will mean that none of this is happening. Realize that the strangeness of her appearance now is not only the fear and unhappiness that it radiates, but the way she seems smaller than you, not the great, looming, all-protective presence that she always used to be, even in her moments of weakness and uncertainty.
Break the silent tension; take that step towards her. Tell her that you’re hers and that you’ll stand by her no matter what. Know that you can never truly express what she’s meant to you all your life, from scraping you off the grimy streets; to training you; to confiding in you; to tackling you out of the way to take Parks’ bullet aimed at you; to keeping you going in the midst of hallucination-ridden bouts of hypothermia; to always being that sure, silent presence, the only constant in this inconstant life. Hope that some of that comes through in the arms that reach out to enfold her in a soft, protective embrace, even as she reflexively stiffens against the unaccustomed close contact.
Feel her mouth shudder against your shoulder in a wordless, voiceless exhalation, a desperate release of the pressure and tension and terror built up in the lines of her body; feel her steady herself again, taking a ragged, muffled breath that resolves itself into what sounds like your name. Pull her closer as you feel her weight sink against your arms, her arms hesitantly circling around behind your back, up your shoulders. Savor the moment of knowing that you can and will stay by her side through anything, keep her safe from anyone, repay all that you owe her in this life.
Feel the moment shattered as something hard strikes the back of your head. Watch your vision spark before dissolving to velvety black unconsciousness. Dimly sense, with well-conditioned nerves, her strong arms catching you as you fall, and belatedly correct your earlier assessment; for you could never keep her safe from herself.
Never feel the brush of her lips against your forehead. Never hear the apology she whispers, over and over, as she lowers you gently to the floor, hastens to finish setting her affairs in order, and lightly steps out through the busted doorframe, down the stairs, and into the trickling rain, bowler hat in one hand and loaded gun in the other.
In the meantime, here is some more angst.
Events leading up to this: it's the afternoon that Jo receives a visit from some police folk in regards to one Avery Blake. Knowing that it's a trap but deciding to walk into it anyway, Jo agrees to meet with him one last time and, assuming that she's not going to survive the encounter, sets about putting her affairs in order. This process is interrupted by a surprise visit from Will, who in the years after the Martians, has gone off and become a spy-assassin-type. After catching up with him for a while, Jo says that she has some errands to run, and will he stay behind and deliver some important papers to Elizabeth? Will pushes to tag along but eventually agrees. However, intrigued by a message in cypher on top of the papers, Will does some investigating and finds a letter (jeparry.livejournal.com/11792.html) that Jo has just written to Elizabeth.
Wanted to try a different voice for this; never wrote anything in the imperative before, but for some reason, that's how I kept thinking of it when I'd compose sections of it in my mind.
/long and rambling intro))
. . .
Set the papers down on the desk, now that you’re out of her sight, and let the jumbled letters shift themselves into words until the message becomes clear, as does the fact that it’s more a safeguard against someone reading the words accidentally than an actual attempt to keep the meaning hidden. Note with worry the fact that she used such a simple, easy-to-crack cipher, the uncharacteristic rushed sloppiness of her actions. Flip through the pages, as the coded message instructs, to the thirteenth from the back, and let your carefully trained eyes scan the letter in her careful, precise handwriting, recognizing the darkly resigned undertones of her flatly straightforward diction.
Break into her room, remembering how you used to approach and reproach her with timidity, hesitation, but no more. See her standing there, clad in impeccable black from head to toe (a sure sign that her venture forth tonight is anything but innocuous), and her immediate recognition that you know. Berate her for taking you for a fool, when she knows full well what you are.
Refuse to back down; don’t let her hide behind hollow excuses and futile attempts to pull rank. You’re not the teenaged boy with a hero-worship complex anymore—you’re a grown man, a carefully honed weapon, looking out for a friend who can’t separate what she says she wants from what she needs. You’re an intelligence-gathering agent, a well-kept device adept at finding out, forcing the information out of anything. Force the information out of her now; wring it out of her, until she confesses the purpose of her departure and why it is far from likely that she will be returning.
Accept her story on the condition that you’ll go with her, anticipating her protests, pleading and desperate, knowing that all it takes is your being willing to say, “No, you won’t” just once more than she says, “Yes, I will.” Don’t stop pushing; make the final ultimatum, knowing that she knows you’ll follow her even if she refuses you. You know she’ll have no choice but to give in—and she does.
See her standing there, black coat, vest, shirt, trousers all contrasting sharply with the pallor of skin and yellow hair, lighter and a little thinner than it used to be. Notice, with those sharply trained eyes, the miniscule movements of her trembling limbs and their wiry muscles, the slouch in her shoulders, eyes closed, as if not having to look at you standing before her will mean that none of this is happening. Realize that the strangeness of her appearance now is not only the fear and unhappiness that it radiates, but the way she seems smaller than you, not the great, looming, all-protective presence that she always used to be, even in her moments of weakness and uncertainty.
Break the silent tension; take that step towards her. Tell her that you’re hers and that you’ll stand by her no matter what. Know that you can never truly express what she’s meant to you all your life, from scraping you off the grimy streets; to training you; to confiding in you; to tackling you out of the way to take Parks’ bullet aimed at you; to keeping you going in the midst of hallucination-ridden bouts of hypothermia; to always being that sure, silent presence, the only constant in this inconstant life. Hope that some of that comes through in the arms that reach out to enfold her in a soft, protective embrace, even as she reflexively stiffens against the unaccustomed close contact.
Feel her mouth shudder against your shoulder in a wordless, voiceless exhalation, a desperate release of the pressure and tension and terror built up in the lines of her body; feel her steady herself again, taking a ragged, muffled breath that resolves itself into what sounds like your name. Pull her closer as you feel her weight sink against your arms, her arms hesitantly circling around behind your back, up your shoulders. Savor the moment of knowing that you can and will stay by her side through anything, keep her safe from anyone, repay all that you owe her in this life.
Feel the moment shattered as something hard strikes the back of your head. Watch your vision spark before dissolving to velvety black unconsciousness. Dimly sense, with well-conditioned nerves, her strong arms catching you as you fall, and belatedly correct your earlier assessment; for you could never keep her safe from herself.
Never feel the brush of her lips against your forehead. Never hear the apology she whispers, over and over, as she lowers you gently to the floor, hastens to finish setting her affairs in order, and lightly steps out through the busted doorframe, down the stairs, and into the trickling rain, bowler hat in one hand and loaded gun in the other.